


Measuring Scars

by Maddalia



Series: The Scars Trilogy [1]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 69,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddalia/pseuds/Maddalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The death of Bodie's mother when he's only nine years old sets in motion a chain of events that eventually leads him to CI5, and Doyle. But when the lads are assigned to protect a volatile ex-KGB assassin, it seems that Bodie has not managed to escape his past as thoroughly as he'd thought. Now he needs Doyle's help to break a cycle of abuse and violence, and bring a happy ending to someone else's love story -- as well as trying to begin one of his own.</p><div class="center">
  <p>* * * *  <b>warnings are in the notes at the end</b> * * * *</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue/Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the longest I've written. It would not have been possible without the input and beta reading of moonlightmead. I also thank merentha13 for her encouragement, and the wonderful mods of CI5BOT for guiding this newbie through her first Big Bang! And of course, a massive thank you to nickygabriel for the fabulous artwork (below).
> 
>  
> 
> ****  
> 

**Prologue**

_‘D’you want to know how I measure success?’ Draper asked._

_‘Poetically, if I know anything about you,’ Bodie answered._

_Draper’s laughter shook them both. His bare, sand-covered back was a warm and comfortable presence against Bodie’s._

_‘The way I see it,’ Draper said, ‘every soul accumulates scars. We’re both in our thirties — we’ve got a fair few each.’_

_‘To say the least,' Bodie said drily._

_‘But the question is — how many of those scars are love bites?'_

_It was Bodie’s turn to burst out laughing. Draper and his metaphors. Some things would never change._

_‘And if you have a lot of love bites, that means success, does it?’_

_‘Course it does,’ Draper sounded impatient now. ‘If you’ve loved more than you’ve hated, the pain doesn’t matter. Don’t you see?’_

_Both men sobered._

 

* * * * * * * *  
 **PART 1. 1950s.**  
* * * * * * * *

**Chapter One**

William Bodie’s mother died on a Thursday afternoon, in June, 1956. William had just turned nine when it happened. He didn’t know what ‘labour’, ‘premature’, ‘stillborn’ or ‘haemorrhaged’ meant. Those were just things he heard Mrs McKenzie from next door telling Mrs Brennan, from next door on the other side, as he came in from school. He knew from the tone of her voice that they meant something bad. Ten minutes later he knew his mother and baby brother were both dead. His dad had locked himself in the bedroom with the bodies. William went and sat on the front step, drew his knees up to his chest, and stared at his hands. They were still grubby from playing football after school, and his knees were grass-stained. The game felt like another life.

An arm came around his shoulders, and he stiffened. He held himself rigid until Mrs McKenzie went away. He didn’t want her. His mum was the one who comforted him when he was upset. No one else was allowed to see him cry.

William heard his dad crying in the night, and part of him wanted to go and share his grief. But he couldn’t make his legs move. Nor could he allow himself to let go. Someone had to be the strong one. Even if his dad never knew about his strength.

Or cared.

That was the frightening part: the being ignored. Mrs McKenzie told him not to worry, his dad was just very upset, and the grief would pass eventually. After that first, horrible night, William stayed at her house until the funeral, to give his dad some space. She was nice — a sensible, no-nonsense woman who’d driven ambulances during the war. She told good stories. He liked her better than Mrs Brennan, who was scatty, and gossiped about anything and everyone. Mrs McKenzie always seemed to know what to say, but she also knew when to be quiet.

William wasn’t allowed to attend the service. They said it would be too painful an experience for a child. William thought they should have left that up to him, but he didn’t say so.

‘Don’t make a nuisance of yourself,’ Mrs McKenzie had told him, the first day he’d gone to stay with her. ‘Just be a good boy, do as you’re told. It’s a difficult time for everyone.’ So William was good in as many ways as he could think to be. He kept quiet, and still, and obedient, because if that was what it would take for his dad to love him again, it was worth it.

When the guests came back to the Bodies’ house after the service, Mrs McKenzie took William in to say hello. Nobody took much notice of him. They were too busy merrymaking: eating and drinking and talking and laughing. But that was all right, because William exchanged his first real words with his dad in four days, and that was what mattered.

‘Why is everyone so happy, Dad? Why aren’t they sad that Mum’s gone?’

‘They’re not happy, Will. They just don’t know what else to do.’

He sounded helpless himself. He put his arm around William’s shoulders, and William hugged him around the waist. Then they stepped away from each other, mutually embarrassed.

 

* * * * *

Mrs McKenzie was right. The grief _did_ pass. It passed with almost frightening speed for William, for whom it was a strange, dull ache, a numbness, rather than outright pain. He’d been reassured by every grownup he knew that his mum and baby brother were in heaven, with Jesus. William reckoned that if heaven existed, it had to be better than a terraced house in Liverpool, and Jesus had to be better company than Mrs Brennan, whose hip was troubling her again. So he tried his best to be happy for them. From there he became contented, at least, for himself. He never _forgot_ his mum, of course, but there did come a time when he could think of her without feeling an ache in his chest. He could look at photos of her and smile. Mrs McKenzie said he had his mum’s eyes.

‘And your father’s chin,’ she told him, just over nine months after his mum’s death. ‘Nice strong chin, he’s got. You’ll be a handsome lad when you’re grown up, Will.’ She ruffled his hair.

‘If I can stop tripping over my own feet,’ William said glumly.

‘Oh, don’t be silly. You just haven’t grown into them yet. Another cuppa?’

‘Oh — yes, please. But won’t they just keep growing like the rest of me?’

‘Everything catches up to everything else eventually, lad,’ said Mrs McKenzie, as she stood up over the kitchen table and busied herself with the tea things. Like most things in Mrs McKenzie’s house, they were old and well-used, but had originally been expensive.

‘Like my dad?’ asked William.

Mrs McKenzie handed him his tea, and offered William a biscuit from the tin she kept by the kettle. William accepted it gratefully.

‘What d’you mean, like your dad?’ she asked, frowning.

‘Mrs Brennan says ...’

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full.’

Resisting the temptation to say ‘well, you asked,’ William chewed and swallowed.

‘Sorry. Mrs Brennan says my dad’s catching up on lost time, and that’s why you and she have to look after me so often.’

‘Don’t you listen to her,’ Mrs McKenzie said harshly. ‘She’s a meddling old gossip, and you can tell her I said so if she says anything like that about your father again.’

‘But what does it _mean,_ Mrs McKenzie?’

‘Mrs Brennan thinks he is entertaining young ladies who are no better than they should be.’

‘But what does ...’

William stopped speaking at the look on her face, and made sure he’d finished his biscuit before he asked again.

‘How your dad chooses to spend his time is neither my business, nor Mrs Brennan’s, nor yours,’ answered Mrs McKenzie. ‘But if anyone implies he’s not behaving properly, they’re wrong. Your dad’s a decent man. But he’s still young, Will, and you mustn’t be surprised if he decides to get married again.’

William was on his feet before he knew what he was doing. He bumped the table with his right knee. Tea splashed from his cup into the saucer. Mrs McKenzie’s cat woke with a start from her siesta on the windowsill and stared at William with her ears flat against her head.

‘So _that’s_ what he’s doing when he goes out at night? He’s looking for a new _wife?’_

He didn’t wait for Mrs McKenzie to finish telling him off; nor did he pay her any attention when she called him back. He stormed out the back door, over the brick wall that separated her narrow strip of garden from his, and in through his own back door, which was always left unlocked.

He ran up to his bedroom, slammed the door, flung himself face down onto his bed, and finally, after all those months of numbness, the grief came.

 

* * * * *

Lydia Campbell was a glamorous-looking blonde, thirty-four years old, the widow of an RAF officer who’d been killed during the Battle of Britain. She drew a widow’s pension on top of a private income, and liked the rough diamond she saw in Albert Edward Bodie. Mrs Brennan said he liked her money and the cut of her dresses. Mrs McKenzie said it was nice that he’d found love again. Even William could see he was smitten, but he didn’t have to like it.

He tried to be happy for his dad on the inside, same as he tried to look it on the outside. But try as he might, William couldn’t summon up a smile for the wedding photos. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Mrs Campbell. He didn’t _not_ like her. He didn’t feel _anything_ for her. She didn’t seem to feel anything for him, either: she barely had two words to say to him. But his dad was smiling again, and Mrs Campbell took her place on his mum’s side of the bed, and the bedroom was closed off to William forever.

He was so unsurprised when she and his dad sat him down and announced they were sending him away to get a better education, he didn’t even throw the tantrum he felt they deserved.


	2. Chapter 2

It was warmer at reception than most of the rest of the school. Along with his timetable, and the names and nicknames of the three houses — St Benedict’s (Dick’s), St Lawrence’s (Larry’s) and his own house, St Bartholomew’s (Bart’s) it was one of the first things Bodie learnt. There were pockets of warmth around the place, and if you were sensible, you found any excuse to frequent them. Reception was one; the staff common room was another. The infirmary was passable. The squash court changing room, right next to the boiler room that provided the hot water for the showers, was like an oven, so in the winter term, the boys used it to change for their games lessons and practices. They were allowed to play squash in their free time, but it was just about impossible to get in unless you booked the court weeks in advance.

The school also had a Victorian Gothic chapel, a croquet lawn, a heated swimming pool, playing fields, tennis courts, a rifle range for the use of the older pupils, a lecture theatre with state-of-the-art film and slide projectors, excellent facilities for music students ... and a host of other amenities that William had forgotten. He knew all this from the prospectus Mrs Campbell had shown him. The school’s facilities were supposed to excite him, but he found the whole process insulting. He’d passed the eleven-plus, with above-average marks, and been offered a place at what was apparently an excellent grammar school. One of his best friends had also got in, and they’d been looking forward to moving up to ‘big school’ together. It would have been great, but instead he was being whisked away to a school where the boys were forced to go to confession on Saturdays, Mass on Sundays, and any blockhead could get in as long as his parents had the money. 

William’s dad was a plumber. Before he remarried, he wouldn’t have had that money in a million years. Nor would he have dreamt of sending his only child away for months at a time. But Mrs Campbell was rich and bossy and wanted William out of the way. And William’s dad always did what she told him, in the end. He’d looked sad when they said goodbye at the end of the drive, but he believed he was giving his son an opportunity he’d never had, and he’d never have heard the end of it if he hadn’t agreed with his new wife, so that was that. It didn’t matter that William didn’t give tuppence for so-called opportunity, and just wanted a normal life. Children didn’t get a say in such matters.

It had been a quick decision, and arrangements had been made all in a rush, so William arrived at the school on the second day of term. That made it seem even worse. He was sure that even among the boys who were new like him, who hadn’t come up through the junior school together, all the important friendships would have been forged yesterday. He sat despondently on a hard wooden chair at reception, listening to the school secretary typing, somewhere in the office. William had been sitting there for fifteen minutes now. He’d gone to the desk, rung the bell and introduced himself; she had said he was expected, and it was customary for the teacher to send a classmate down to fetch any late arrivals. But no one had come yet.

Ten more minutes passed, and William began to feel uneasy. He went to the desk, and, feeling rather timid, rang the bell again.

‘Oh, you’re still here, Bodie,’ said the secretary. ‘Hasn’t anyone come to collect you?’

‘No,’ replied William. ‘Are you sure I’m not s’posed to go straight up to the classroom?’

‘I believe I understand school policy well enough, young man. You sit quietly and wait. I’m sure someone will be along soon.’

Obediently, William returned to his seat. It had been a quarter past eight when he’d arrived. According to the letter his dad and stepmother had received, form masters called the register at eight-thirty, and dealt with any housekeeping matters. Pupils then gathered in the Great Hall for assembly, which started at nine sharp. He felt rather worried when he heard a clock chiming. Perhaps there’d been some mistake, and they weren’t expecting him after all. What would Mrs Campbell say?

What _would_ Mrs Campbell say?

William smiled to himself. As the minutes ticked by, he imagined getting into a taxi and riding all the way home on his own. Mrs Campbell and her seemingly bottomless bank account ... _she’d_ have to pay. He imagined her face: that indignant, yet resigned expression she always put on when an unexpected bill came her way. Her ‘this is an outrage, but _I_ can afford it’ face. And she’d have to put up with her stepson at home ... he’d be able to go to grammar school after all, because this lot of toffee-nosed gits didn’t want him, and he’d never been gladder to feel unwanted ...

A porter had taken William’s trunk and overnight bag — he was to be shown his dormitory later — but he had his satchel. It sat at his feet. He had a few shillings in his pocket: Mrs Campbell was, at least, reasonably generous with her money. He could walk out of here right now, through the side door, down the drive and away from the hateful place. That secretary woman would never notice. 

_And if I wasn’t expected, who’s to know?_ William thought. His dad had mentioned there was a town nearby, and that it was quite close to the sea. He could spend a day at the beach, get himself some rock and maybe an ice cream. Then he’d go home to his dad. Mrs Campbell would probably be too embarrassed to ring up the school, even just to get his luggage back, if he wasn’t expected ...

It was twenty-five to ten, and William was just getting to his feet, when he heard footsteps outside the reception room. He sat down again hurriedly. A boy, dark-haired and fair-skinned like himself, walked in. He looked simultaneously older and younger than William: not much taller, but he seemed more mature, somehow. Yet his features were young, delicate, almost _pretty._ William looked at him expectantly, but the boy barely glanced his way. He went straight to the desk and rang the bell.

‘Ah, and what can I do for _you,_ Hailey?’ the secretary asked.

‘Please, Miss Dunn — Father Walters sent me to collect the permission forms for the upper fourth English trip.’

‘I sent them up with Miss Hobbs last evening; they ought to be on his desk.’

‘That’s what he said, Miss Dunn, but he can’t find them anywhere.’

‘Good grief — that girl!’ Miss Dunn tutted and rolled her eyes. ‘She’ll have put them down somewhere. Please tell Father Walters that I shall hunt them out personally.’

‘Thank you, Miss Dunn.’

‘Oh — Hailey — there’s a new boy in the lower third, just arrived. I think Mr Kendall must have forgotten. Could you show him up to his classroom, please?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Hailey looked around at William, and gave him a friendly smile, revealing straight white teeth and a crescent-shaped dimple at the right-hand corner of his mouth.

 _That’ll change the minute I start talking,_ William thought. Hailey’s voice and manner were as cultured as any William had seen or heard. In another life he’d have laughed at him.

‘Bodie, this is Owen Hailey. He’s in your house. He’s three forms above you, but he’ll take you to your classroom.’

‘Thanks,’ William muttered. He stood up, putting his bag over his shoulder. He felt suddenly awkward and shy, but if the older boy noticed, he didn’t let on. He patted William on the back as if he were any other classmate, and waved him out the door. William walked through, and found himself in a wide hallway, with a flight of stairs leading upwards.

‘Your classroom’s two floors up. You’ll get used to the stairs. It’s nice to meet you — Bodie?’ When Bodie nodded, he nodded back, and went on: ‘The name’s _Hal_ -ey, by the way. Spelt as in Bill Haley and the Comets, pronounced as in Halley’s Comet. Miss Dunn always gets it wrong.’

‘She called me _Body_ when I first arrived,’ said William. It had bewildered him. He’d never heard anyone mispronounce his name before.

Haley made a face. ‘That’s even worse. I hope your classmates don’t pick that up. You can imagine how much mine loved calling me a girl’s name when I started here. I’ve been here since I was twelve. What school did you come from?’

‘I don’t think you’d’ve heard of it,’ William answered.

‘Oh, right. Are you a scholarship boy, Bodie?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve a friend who is. He used to talk a bit like you. Still does when he forgets himself. That’s why I asked. Where are you from?’

‘Liverpool.’

‘My friend’s from Manchester. Is it true, Liverpudlians and Mancunians hate each other?’

‘Only in football season,’ William replied. Haley laughed. William smiled back at him. He couldn’t help warming to Haley, who couldn’t be so bad if he was friends with a scholarship boy. William wished he were older, so he could be in their class.

‘I’m on this floor,’ Haley said, when they reached the top of the stairs. ‘I’ll take you all the way up, though. Don’t worry about Mr Kendall forgetting you; he’s always doing things like that. He’s the history master and his head’s all stuck in the past. Father Walters is almost ...’

Before they could start on the second flight of stairs, a door opened nearby, and a fair-haired, solid-looking boy came out. He had a pleasant, good-natured face, and wide, deep-set brown eyes that sparkled in fun.

‘Good morrow, sweet Hal,’ he said, in an affected voice. He made a flourishing bow.

‘This is my friend I was telling you about,’ Haley told William, with a fond grin in the newcomer’s direction. ‘We’re studying Shakespeare, you might have guessed. Henry the Fourth. _Apparently,_ I’m the Prince. _And,’_ he added, with a pointed look, ‘he’s probably going to get six of the best for playing the fool in Father Walters’ class.’

‘Hello!’ the fair-haired boy greeted William. He came forward with hand outstretched, and William shook it. ‘My name’s Draper, what’s yours?’

‘Bodie.’ He was finding he quite liked this business of calling each other by surnames.

‘New this year?’

William nodded.

‘What form?’

‘Lower third,’ Haley answered for him.

‘Lucky for you,’ Draper said to William. ‘Mr Kendall’s an easy case. Unlike _our_ form master, who you’ll have for English. Or _whom,_ should I say. _Whom.’_ He made the word sound like an owl call.

‘And he’s your housemaster,’ added Haley. ‘Ours too. He’s in Bart’s as well, Jonny.’

‘Best house in the school. Welcome,’ said Draper with a grin. ‘You’d better shift, Hal; Walt’s in a fine old mood. Did you get those forms?’

Before Haley could reply, someone called down from upstairs.

‘Oi, Draper! That our boy you’ve got there?’

They all looked up to see a curly-haired, freckle-faced boy hanging over the banisters.

‘Bodie, is it?’

William nodded.

‘Sorry for the mix-up. Mr Kendall just sent me out to fetch you.’

‘Go on then,’ Haley said, giving William an encouraging push in the direction of the stairs. ‘Nice meeting you, Bodie.’

‘You too,’ William replied. He and Draper nodded at each other. William walked slowly up the stairs, feeling like he was leaving something warm and familiar, and heading into the unknown. Draper was still fooling, to Haley’s obvious amusement.

‘Now, my good sweet honey lord, ride with me this afternoon. I have a jest to execute that I cannot manage alone.’ He wiggled his eyebrows mischievously, and Haley burst out laughing.

‘Jon, you ass!’

He grabbed his friend round the neck, and they walked off into their classroom with their arms around each other’s shoulders, still giggling. William couldn’t quite see the joke, but then, he hadn’t yet started Shakespeare.

‘Well hurry up, then,’ said the curly-haired boy. William broke into a trot.

‘Sorry,’ he panted. ‘Not used to the stairs.’

‘Oh, you’ll _get_ used to them alright. My name’s Sanders, by the way. Quentin Sanders. They call me Quinn. What do they call you?’

William opened his mouth to say ‘Will,’ but found himself answering, ‘Oh — just Bodie.’


	3. Chapter 3

‘I expect you’re looking forward to half term,’ Draper said, ducking his head against the wind as he and William — Bodie, as everyone at school called him — walked back from the squash court on a cold Friday afternoon. Bodie shrugged and replied: ‘I suppose.’ 

Draper didn’t press him to elaborate on his home life. That was what Bodie liked best about him. If you wanted to talk, he’d listen attentively, even offer advice, but he never pushed. He was easy to be with: a refreshing change from Bodie’s fellow third-formers, of whom only Quinn — who got on with everyone — was ever nice to him. While the boarding school world had seemed to spiral into ever more complex vortices of chaos since Bodie’s first day, Draper’s solid, down-to-earth presence had anchored him to the ground. Bodie’s own classmates had mocked his accent, taunted him for his big feet, and spilled ink on his prep. Draper, whose background was similar to Bodie's, had taken him under his wing.

The unacknowledged leader of the lower third bullies was a bright, popular boy called Corin Adams, the only pupil at the school whose parents were famous outside their set. Adams’ late father had been an actor, and his mother was a fine-art photographer whose name Bodie remembered from the magazines his own mother had liked to read, so often open on the coffee table at the old house. Adams had made an enemy of Bodie by calling him first Body, then Nobody. Bodie had retaliated by singing _Corrina Corrina,_ unwittingly stumbling upon an old class joke. According to Quinn, who filled Bodie in on the details later, Adams himself had been bullied, once upon a time. Except that Adams hadn’t been bullied for being the new face, or for being ‘common’.

‘At least those things wear off,’ said Quinn. ‘They will for you too. Poor old Corin was bullied for his name.’

‘Does he let you use it?’ Bodie asked in surprise.

‘Yeah, but only me. I never laughed at him, you see. I’ve been laughed at enough for being called Quentin. I wasn’t going to inflict that on him. I said I liked Corin — it’s better than plain old Adams, after all. So he said I could use it. Anyway, people get over it, forget, move on. Corin thought up my nickname and it stuck. I dare say no one remembers where it came from now.’

‘So what — I reminded them? About how they used to tease him?’

Quinn nodded. ‘It’s no wonder he flew off the handle at you. Don’t worry, Bodie. He’ll get over it.’

Quinn was wrong. Adams did _not_ get over it. If anything, the enmity between the two boys grew worse over the weeks that followed. Worse luck, Adams was in Bart’s, so Bodie was forced to share a dormitory with him as well. He and his cronies had made Bodie’s life a misery ever since he’d arrived at the school. So, even though he was three years older, and Bodie couldn't see him as much as he’d have liked, Draper was a welcome presence in Bodie’s life. It had started with a friendly nod or hello if they passed each other in the corridors, and if they happened to stand next to each other in the queue at mealtimes, Draper — and Haley, since those two were never seen apart — would always include Bodie in their conversations. 

As the weeks passed, however, Draper began to look out for Bodie when the boys filed into the dining hall, and save him a place in the queue. He and Haley never let Bodie sit with them for meals, because they thought it was important for him to keep mixing with his own classmates. But they often sought him out on Saturdays and Sundays, to kick a football around, or play a game of croquet, or walk into the nearby town to visit the sweet shop or newsagent’s. When Bodie failed his first Latin and Greek vocab tests, it was Haley and Draper who sat with him in the library to help him catch up. Haley was gifted at languages, as keen on Greek as Draper was on English, and he was far more patient a teacher than Mr Higgins, the Greek master, who seemed to delight in humiliating Bodie at every turn. Draper, who was only there for moral support, spent his time scribbling in the leather-bound notebook he always carried with him, and baiting Adams, who was often to be found sitting in a corner of the library, reading political biographies. Quinn told Bodie he had ambitions to be prime minister one day. Bodie swore that if Adams ended up running the country, he’d emigrate.

Haley hadn’t been with them at the squash court that afternoon. One thing Bodie had learnt early on about Haley and Draper was that they played together, every Friday afternoon, between four and six. Draper had got in at the beginning of term and booked the court, coveted for its warmth, for every week until Christmas. For the last two weeks, Haley had been in the infirmary with a particularly rotten case of flu, and although Draper had stayed loyally by him the Friday before, Haley had suggested Bodie as a substitute partner for Draper when he couldn’t make their booking a second time. Bodie had enjoyed himself. Draper was genial, entertaining company, and a good-natured, rather than particularly skilled squash player. Although an enthusiastic sportsman, Draper wasn’t much more than average at anything except shooting, which he’d started that term (to Bodie’s disappointment, only upper fourth and older were allowed). According to Haley, he was already one of the best at the school rifle club. But at squash, Bodie had been able to beat him after only two games. And Draper hadn’t cared at all. He had banged Bodie on the back and said how much Haley would laugh when they told him.

‘Are your parents coming for the open day?’ he asked, as they walked back to school.

‘They can’t make it,’ Bodie lied. The fact was, although (like all the other boys) he was forced to spend an hour after lunch on Sundays writing a letter home, he hadn’t told his dad about the open day. He’d be going home for a week; he’d see him then. Bodie had no desire for his classmates to see his very working-class father mixing with the teachers and other parents. He didn’t need to give them any other excuse to bully him. And he’d rather have felt the end of Father Walters’ cane every day for a week than spend a day in public with his stepmother.

‘My dad’s coming,’ Draper said with a grin. ‘He asked whether I’d prefer them to meet the eccentric playwright, the brash Yorkshireman or the obnoxious Man U fan this year.’

Bodie must have looked as bewildered as he felt, because Draper laughed.

‘Dad likes to take the piss,’ he explained. ‘He reckons the best way to deal with snobbery is to exaggerate the qualities they look down on you for. If you’re not bothered by them, they can’t do much.’

‘What do you think?’ Bodie asked.

‘Me?’ Draper laughed again. ‘I want to go to Oxford. I’m going to be a barrister. I’ll do what I have to do to get what I want. Doesn’t mean I stop being _me._ Dad knows that; he just likes to have a laugh.’

‘So what _does_ your dad do for a living?’ asked Bodie.

‘He’s a copper. Just a regular plod in uniform, nothing fancy. He works bloody hard and he hates privilege, but he respects what I want. He always knew I had a good brain and he had no problem when Mum suggested I go for the scholarship here.’

‘And you’re happy here?’

‘Yeah! Never been happier. How long’ve you been here, Bodie, a month? Month and a half? They were still flushing my head down the toilet and spilling ink on my prep at that stage. But after a term or two it calmed down, and the next year was loads better. And I don’t want to sound like a swat or a show-off, but it _is_ fun to see all these spoilt kids’ faces when a mere commoner beats them to the top of the class. And we are _going_ to Oxford.’

‘We?’

‘Hal and I.’

‘Oh yeah, of course.’ Bodie wondered if Haley knew how closely he was involved in Draper’s future plans. ‘But it does stop, then?’

‘What?’

‘The bullying, Jon. What else?’

‘Yeah, course it stops. They get used to your face, you tone down your accent, everyone settles in.’ Draper shrugged. ‘In my case, there was another new boy.’

‘So what did you do when they bullied him?’

‘I joined in.’

‘You bloody hypocrite!’ Bodie stopped walking in surprise, and glowered at Draper, but he only shrugged and laughed and said it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

‘I wasn’t _going_ to join in,’ he explained. ‘I tried to make friends with him. Told him I was new the year before, and I’d just been through what he was going through’ — Bodie opened his mouth to say that made it even worse, but Draper talked over him — ‘so there was no way I was going to let them do the same to him. He said I ought to. It’d make me more popular, then I could help get _him_ accepted into the group. He’d been reading about how wolf packs work, I think. Wanted to see if it worked on people. So that’s what I tried to do.’

Bodie frowned. ‘Did it work?’

‘It would have,’ said Draper. He started walking again, and Bodie, mostly because it was cold, fell into step with him. ‘But I couldn’t do it in the end. Ended up in a fight with Morton. Got pulverised, as you might imagine. He’s a _little_ bigger than me.’

Bodie nodded incredulously. Roger Morton was the youngest rugby captain the school had ever had. He was a year older than most of the upper fourth and at least a head taller than all of them.

‘Anyway, the new boy got pulverised as well,’ Draper went on. ‘He defended me, we spent a day in the infirmary, Morton got caned, and he hasn’t bothered us since. Thought we put up a good fight. At least most of these toffs have a sense of fair play.’

Bodie smiled. ‘That new boy wasn’t Hal by any chance?’

‘Yeah.’ Draper grinned. ‘How’d you guess?’

‘Well, he told me he was twelve when he came here,’ said Bodie. ‘But you only say “we” like that when you’re talking about you and Hal.’

‘Like how?’

‘I dunno. But it’s a certain way.’

Draper gave Bodie an odd, calculating look. It made Bodie feel uncomfortable, and he looked away. There was something about Draper — something about the two of them — something not quite _normal._ It didn’t exactly bother him, but he wanted to know what it was.

‘Want to come and see Hal in the infirmary?’ Draper asked, as they reached the side door and let themselves back into the main school building. He took a pack of playing cards out of his pocket. ‘Three-way snap’s fun. My dad promised he’d teach me to play poker at half term ...’

Bodie was on the point of saying yes. But listening to Draper chattering on about his dad made him feel miserable. He made a lame excuse about revising for a test, and went back to his form room, which he hoped would be empty in the half hour before prep. He often went there to avoid the other boys, who were always in the third-form common room at this time.

It was empty except for a bucket of icy water that tipped onto his head when he entered. They’d obviously noticed his habits. Several boys, including Adams, rushed into the room behind him, laughing and jeering. 

_Keep it together, Bodie,_ he told himself. _Getting into fights might work for Jonathan Draper, but knowing my luck I’ll just get caught and caned for it._

‘Thanks for that, lads,’ he said, through chattering teeth. ‘I needed a shower. The water’s too hot down at the squash court.’

He turned around and started to walk out of the room. Adams grabbed his shoulder and stopped him.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ He had a mop in his other hand. ‘Someone’s got to clean this up before prep.’

‘Have fun,’ Bodie said coldly, and pushed past him. He knew Adams would try and trip him up with the mop. Bodie whirled around and grabbed it just as Adams was aiming it at his feet. He trailed the stringy head along the wet floor and brought it up into the other boy’s face.

‘Oof!’ Adams cried out, and staggered backwards, away from the mop.

‘There. You needed a wash.’ He brandished the mop. ‘Anyone else want one?’

The other boys backed away. A couple of them even looked quite impressed. Quinn, who was always present for any action whether he joined in or not, was sitting on the nearest desk, swinging his legs, and seemed to be enjoying the whole thing immensely. Adams, on the other hand, looked furious.

‘You’re for it now, Bodie!’ he yelled, clenching his fists.

_‘Is_ he.’

There was a collective gasp. Mr Kendall’s voice had made them all jump. Their form master was walking along the corridor towards the open door of the classroom. His eyes took in wet floor, mop, bucket and boys in one sweeping glance.

‘Adams.’

‘Sir?’

‘Someone’s spilt some water on the floor. Make sure it’s mopped up before prep. Bodie, perhaps you’ll allow your classmate to borrow your mop.’

‘Yes sir.’ Bodie tried not to grin as he handed the mop over to an irate-looking Adams.

‘Now, unless you have an important discovery about _volume_ to announce to us all, Bodie, please return to your bath. You have twenty minutes. Don’t be late.’

‘Sir.’

Bodie could hardly believe he was walking away unmolested. He knew he’d probably answer for it later, but this had to be a victory, didn’t it? However small? Surely this was God paying him back for staying cool, not thumping Adams. If he’d started a fight, Kendall would have caught them.

‘Eureka!’ a voice called after him.

‘Be quiet, Sanders. Adams, get on with it. The rest of you, scram.’

* * * * *

There were only two reparations for that particular incident. One was that the boys called Bodie Archimedes for the rest of the term. Quinn kept drawing caricatures of him with a beard, and a towel bearing the school crest done up on him like a toga. Some of them featured Adams pursuing him down the street with a mop.

The other consequence was that Bodie found the mop in his bed that night, and he had to go and see Matron for a change of sheets. Quinn, whose elder brother was an avid P.G. Wodehouse reader, came back after half term with the bright idea of getting Adams back by bursting his hot water bottle with a darning needle attached to a broom handle. The plan worked, but Matron guessed who the culprits were and reported them to Mr Kendall, who flogged both of them _and_ Adams over his desk the next day, and gave them a hundred lines each.

But by the time they’d put down their pens and complained about aching fingers — not to mention backsides — most of the animosity had gone. Adams began to lose interest in tormenting Bodie, and by the end of term, the bullying had stopped altogether.


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs Campbell’s motives for doing anything were a mystery to Bodie. When she suggested that he have a friend to stay for a few days after Christmas, he almost asked whether she kept a large enough oven in the cellar. But he didn’t want to push his luck. His first thought was Tommy Harker, his best friend from the old days, who’d spent the last term at the grammar school Bodie had once coveted. True to form, however, Mrs Campbell told him that if he wanted to see Tommy, he could cycle across town and visit him. She wanted him to invite someone from boarding school.

‘I’ve got two good friends there; could I invite both of them?’ asked Bodie, pushing his luck on purpose that time. _Maybe if I ask too much she’ll just say no and leave me alone_ ... yet, for whatever reason, she agreed.

‘I bet she wants to show off the new house,’ Bodie said to his dad, later, as they sat out on the terrace with blankets around their knees, soaking up a bit of rare winter sunshine. ‘Bet she wants to show my posh new friends that _her_ stepson comes from just as nice a home as them.’

‘Don’t talk about your stepmother like that,’ Bodie’s dad said wearily. ‘Who are you inviting?’

‘Oh — Adams and Quinn,’ answered Bodie.

‘Well, I’ve heard about Quinn from your letters, but you’ve never mentioned Adams before.’

‘Yes I have. He used to be a bully, but he’s alright now.’

‘At least they teach forgiveness at that school, then.’

‘They teach a lot of things, but I’m not sure about forgiveness.’

‘You happy there now, Will?’

‘It’s alright,’ Bodie replied with a shrug. ‘Good as anywhere, I reckon.’

‘And they don’t tease you about your accent anymore?’

‘’S not that,’ said Bodie. ‘I just make myself sound like them.’

‘Get away.’ His dad grinned. ‘Go on then, show me.’

‘“Full fathom five thy father lies ...”’ Bodie began, in his best “toff’s voice,” as he privately called it. When he reached the end of the speech, his dad laughed and applauded.

‘You’ll get a lot out of that school if you put the effort in,’ he told Bodie. ‘I was pleased with your report. Considering that it takes time to settle into a new place, you’re doing alright.’

‘I want to go to Oxford,’ said Bodie. He wasn’t sure _what_ he wanted, really, but it had sounded marvellous, the way Draper talked about it, and it was a grand thing to tell grown-ups.

‘Keep up the good work, son, and I’m sure you will.’

* * * * *

Bodie _did_ keep up the good work. The more he thought about it, the more he thought the undergraduate life might suit him. According to Draper, it was all about living in your own quarters, going to parties, only studying what you liked, and getting a ticket to any job you wanted afterwards. Most importantly, Draper said, people minded their own business, and a chap could do what he liked without interference from parents or teachers.

That was all fine by Bodie. He was bright, and since he’d settled in and made a couple of friends — ironically, Adams was now the one he liked best, and he even let Bodie use his first name — his school marks had been gradually improving. His command of the classical languages was still woeful after three terms, but he was good at maths, average at geography and history, and among the better half of his classmates at games. They played cricket in the summer term, and Bodie was good enough at it that he won the wholehearted approval even of those boys who were still disposed to shun ‘new money’. He found himself quite popular — until he dropped an easy catch at first slip during a particularly tense game against the lower fourth, and became _persona non grata_ until his half-century helped win the rematch a week later.

His best subject was English, because he found it easy to remember, as well as understand, lines of Shakespeare and various poems. His essay writing hadn’t been up to much when he started at the school, but by the time the year was over, his work looked less like it had been violently murdered when it came back to him. Even Father Walters admitted, after he’d marked their end-of-term tests, that his bottles of red ink were lasting longer now that Bodie was, as the English master put it, ‘applying himself’. Bodie was pleasantly surprised at this rare, if measured, praise from Father Walters, but delighted when the marks were read out, and he and Adams had tied for top. He didn’t even mind being bottom in Greek. 

Nor did his dad, who was ecstatic at his son being top in anything. Even Mrs Campbell was pleased enough that she left James, Bodie’s ten-month-old half brother (whom she never usually let out of her sight) with the next-door-neighbour’s nanny, and took them out for tea and buns at the sort of place you had to dress up for. Bodie privately suspected that she was celebrating him only being bottom in one subject, but he’d learnt not to voice such thoughts aloud. They only made his dad unhappy.

‘If they do send you there, it’s not so bad,’ Bodie told James, when he sneaked into the nursery on his first day back from school that summer. ‘Specially since you’ll be starting at the beginning.’

‘William!’ 

Mrs Campbell’s voice made him jump. He turned around to see her bustling into the room, looking annoyed. ‘James is supposed to be sleeping.’

‘I heard him talking to himself as I walked past,’ said Bodie, trying not to sound too sullen as she joined him at the crib. ‘Well. “Ga-ga-goo-goo” and all that. Just thought I’d keep him company.’

To his surprise, his stepmother smiled down at him.

‘Did you miss him?’ she asked. ‘I think he misses you. Your father shows him your photograph and reads from your letters. So James doesn’t forget you while you’re away.’

In truth, Bodie had barely thought about his half-brother this past term, but looking down at the chubby, sleepy little face, staring up at him out of eyes just like his dad’s, he couldn’t help smiling a little.

‘I s’pose I did a bit,’ he answered.

‘Well, you run along now,’ Mrs Campbell said. ‘You’ll have plenty of time to spend with James over the holidays. He’s getting more lively all the time.’

Bodie nodded. At the door, he turned around and watched as she bent over the crib, settling the baby down to sleep, murmuring to him. Bodie wondered if that was what all mothers were like — whether his own mother had been the same. He wished he could remember that far back.

He found himself busy that summer. There was some holiday homework, which Mrs Campbell made him get out the way early. Then he went to stay with Adams for a week, then Quinn. Then he had them both to stay with him. After that, he went riding over to see Tommy on his new bike: his twelfth birthday present from his dad and stepmother. Tommy seemed happy to see him. He had a new bike too, although not as fancy a model as Bodie’s. They raced each other, practised tricks, and caught up on all each other’s news over a pennyworth of toffees from the local sweet shop. 

Tommy Harker was the only one of the old gang who didn’t resent Bodie’s change in circumstances, but they found they had less and less in common every time they saw one another. Tommy was one of the few remaining aspects of life before Bodie’s mother had died, and even he seemed to be fading into the background. 

His home life felt empty. His old life felt alien. Bodie found, despite himself, that he was looking forward to going back to school. At least he felt accepted there. Part of it was just time — he and his classmates had got used to each other. Getting over the feud with Adams had also been important. Being good at games had helped, especially since he’d grown a few inches and, as Mrs McKenzie had once put it, ‘caught up with his feet’. Cultivating a posh accent had also helped. But the final rite of passage seemed to have been, of all things, his new bike. 

It had arrived at school back in May, on his birthday morning — to much ‘ooh’ing and ‘aah’ing from his peers, for it was a very up-to-date model, with three gears. Boys often cycled into the nearby town on Friday afternoons or Saturdays, and Bodie’s newly acquired ability to join them was another important stepping stone in their acceptance of him as one of them. Draper didn’t have a bike, and he reckoned it made him a slight outsider, even after nearly five years at the school. It didn’t seem to bother him. Whenever Haley decided to go cycling, Draper got out what he referred to as his ‘project’ — a radio he was building from odds and ends — and tinkered with it until his best friend was back with him again. 

It was Haley who accompanied Bodie on his first trip out, because Quinn and Adams were both writing lines for Father Walters at the time. As they were returning their bikes to the big, rickety sheds where they were stored, Bodie heard a babble of hushed voices, followed them around the corner, and abruptly discovered that boys did the same things behind bicycle sheds at posh schools as they did at ordinary ones.

‘Have you started all that yet?’ asked Haley, as they walked back towards the dormitories. Being a person people called ‘too serious’ — except Draper, who called him ‘dignified’ — he had stopped Bodie peeking round the corner and calling the boys rude names.

‘What,’ Bodie replied, ‘the smoking or the ...’

‘Well, both.’

‘Neither.’

‘Don’t let anyone pressure you.’

‘What, into smoking, or ...’

‘Either. Smoking’ll give you lung cancer. My father’s a surgeon, so he knows. As for that — God, what do people want to do it in groups for? It’s supposed to be private.’

‘I never took you for a prude, Hal,’ Bodie teased.

‘I’d rather be called a prude than whip it out in front of _anyone,’_ Haley answered. ‘You wait — some of the boys do it to each other.’

‘Oh, I know. I’ve seen a few of the lads in lower fourth; they were standing in a circle and ...’ He shook his head to clear it of the image, which he’d found not so much unpleasant as simply _too much._ ‘Anyway, you just ignore it, don’t you?’

‘Well, when it does start for you, be careful who gets the bed next to you next year, or you might get a nasty surprise.’

‘Well, look, I’m not saying I’d let anyone touch me, but I’ve nothing against queers,’ Bodie said. He felt his accent slipping, as it tended to do when he was agitated. ‘There were these blokes down our way, where I used to live. They had a two-bedroom house, but _everyone_ knew what they got up to' — Bodie wasn't too clear on this himself, but he rushed on — ‘and some people said they should be hounded out of the area, but me dad and next-door-neighbour said it was just ...’

‘Bodie, _I’ve_ nothing against them either!’ Haley protested. ‘My father says they should have their bits chopped off, but ...’

‘Why, does he specialise in amputations?’

‘Shut up.’ Haley laughed. ‘Father’s just — Father. Anyway, I don’t agree. I think it’s fine if you are queer, but most boys here aren’t. They just do it to each other because there aren’t any girls around. That’s what I object to; it’s so — _cheap._ You should be in love before you do that, whether the other person knows ... I mean ...’ he trailed off, with an awkward grimace that Bodie couldn’t ignore.

‘Oooh, who is she?’ Bodie demanded, grinning. Haley grinned back, but sarcastically.

‘There _is_ no “she”.’

‘He, then?’ Bodie teased.

‘I was talking hypothetically, Bodie,’ Haley replied. ‘I didn’t mean “whether the other person knows”, I meant “whether the other person is male or female”. That’s _it._ Alright?’ His argument made little sense, but his tone stated, in no uncertain terms, that the subject was closed. 

‘Well, like I said, I’m not letting anyone touch _me.’_ Bodie poked himself in the chest for emphasis. He was sure of that much, but that was all. He wasn’t up to giving opinions on love and sex. It was fine for a fifteen-year-old like Haley, who was so good looking that he probably had a string of girls going nuts about him every time he went home for the holidays, but it all seemed very far off to twelve-year-old Bodie.

_Which is just as well,_ he reflected, _because girls are stupid._


	5. Chapter 5

The day before Bodie was due to go back to school for the start of his second year, Mrs Campbell’s car broke down. Bodie begged his dad to have his trunk and bicycle sent down, and drive him there on his motorbike, but just as he’d half-convinced him, Mrs Campbell walked past the study, and put her foot down. Apparently ‘Bertie’ would forget everything he knew about motorcycling once he’d driven a certain distance, and both he and his son would be horribly killed. ‘Bertie’ bowed down to her opinion immediately, of course, and Bodie went off and sulked. If you went by train you had to get up two hours earlier. He’d been sleeping in until nine all holidays, so getting up at eight was quite hideous enough, but _six?_ As far as Bodie was concerned, ‘evil stepmother’ wasn’t the half of it.

In the morning, Bodie asked if he could take the taxi to the station on his own. He wasn’t in the mood for his family any longer, blood relatives or otherwise. Besides, if they let him go, it would prove they were as glad to get shot of him as he’d been suspecting. 

When he asked, he pretended it would make him feel grown-up. They said yes.

So he said goodbye at the front door — nicely; he wasn’t quite stubborn enough to part badly from them — then he let Mrs Campbell fuss over how his bike was strapped to the roof of the taxi, and sank with relief into the back seat. He didn’t look back at the house, even though he saw in the rear view mirror that they were waving, and Mrs Campbell was jiggling James’ hand in the air so that he was waving, too. Bodie raised one hand before they were out of sight, telling himself it was for his brother.

When he reached the station, he let the taxi driver help him get his belongings into the hands of a porter, and went to the window to buy his ticket. Then he hastened onto the platform, drawn in by the cacophony of young voices that grew louder with every step he took. He felt excited, despite his earlier mood. He’d never come to school by train before. The summer holidays had seemed so long and leisurely that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be part of a milling crowd of boys in school uniform, and he’d never been part of it in this setting.

On the platform there were children from two or three schools, judging by the uniforms. He soon spotted some of his own, faces he recognised, reuniting with each other by handshakes and bangings on backs, sometimes rough embraces. He found himself wondering how Haley and Draper would behave when they hadn’t seen each other for a few weeks. He gathered, from snatches of conversation, that they spent a good portion of each holiday in each other’s company, but he also gathered that they missed each other terribly the rest of the time. He was friends with both of them, although the age gap precluded the closeness he had with Adams and Quinn. But it wasn’t the friendship that made him think of them; it was curiosity, and a little jealousy. He had his own friends at the school now, but it was nothing like the way Haley and Draper were with each other. He’d never been that close to anyone, except perhaps his mother. And he wanted to be. He wanted that equal partnership, that sense of unconditional brotherhood, that seemed to Bodie the only way to describe what the two older boys had.

_If you try and describe it any other way, it starts to sound like they’re queer._

It was the first time Bodie had allowed himself to consider that possibility, but as he thought it, he realised it had been in the back of his mind ever since he’d first seen them together. Not that he had anything against queers. He’d been telling Haley the truth last term. When rumours about Joe McShane and his 'lodger' had swept the street, he had overheard Mrs Brennan listing various creative (and painful) methods of dealing with men who, as she put it, 'went with' other men. It had all been something of a revelation for Bodie.

_'At the very least they should be in prison,'_ he remembered her saying, loud enough for half the street to hear. _'Someone should tell the police.'_

Luckily for Joe McShane, Mrs Brennan was all talk. 

Bodie, for his part, wondered what was so wrong with it — alright, most men fancied women, but if some of them fancied other men, what did it matter? Bodie’s dad, when Bodie bombarded him with questions, said that as long as they weren’t hurting anyone else, what was private was private, and none of anyone else’s business. _‘But I'm not saying I like the idea. Far as I'm concerned it's unnatural. And it's still illegal. So if anyone's tried anything on you at school ...'_ After Bodie had indignantly assured him that no one had, he wouldn’t say another word on the subject.

_‘But what do they_ do?’ Bodie had asked Mrs McKenzie, later. He’d meant, _how do they do it?_ It wasn’t a question he felt he could ask his dad, who was clearly uncomfortable about the details of such matters. Mrs McKenzie, on the other hand, had never _not_ had an answer for something in all the time Bodie had known her, and she’d openly berated Mrs Brennan for her bigotry — but he should have known he wouldn’t get a straight answer from her about _that._

_‘Oh, they go out, they meet, they dance, they fall in love and out again.’_ She had been scrubbing her kitchen table at the time. Bodie could still see her work-reddened hands moving, hear the bristles scrape along the rough wood as she added, meaningfully: _‘Just like anyone else.’_

_Just like anyone else,_ Bodie repeated to himself, as he walked along the platform. _I wonder if Hal and Jonny are in love?_

As he got further into the crowd, he began to run into friends. Mark Kelly, a fellow lower — no, _upper_ now — third-former, with whom Bodie hoped to open the batting for the cricket team next summer, slapped him heartily on the back and said he’d save a seat for him. George Daniels, an undersized boy with glasses who could hold his own in a fight better than anyone who didn’t know him would have guessed, gave him a grin and a loud hello. Everyone seemed in high spirits, except for a few nervous-looking boys who Bodie didn’t recognise. New pupils, evidently.

_I wonder if any of them will be in my form?_ he wondered. _I don’t care about wolf packs or whatever Hal thinks. I’ll never bully anyone._

By far the most exuberant person on the platform, however, was Draper. Bodie spotted him about twenty feet away, talking enthusiastically to Roger Morton, the big rugby captain. He caught sight of Bodie, waved madly, and bounded over, grinning, to shake his hand.

‘Bodie!’

‘Hiya, Jonny, how are things?’

‘Oh, things are _good,_ Bodie. I didn’t expect to see you here! Don’t you usually come by car? What happened, did you break down, or can’t your parents spare the time this term? My dad always has to work and my mum doesn’t drive, so I’m always stuck here while Hal gets to ride in his father’s Rolls. D’you know, Morton thinks I might get off reserve this term? They need a new scrum-half now Reynolds has left.’ 

Draper was talking so fast that Bodie could only just follow what he was saying. 

‘I think you’ve grown! I haven’t, worse luck. Hal has. He’s half a year older so he’s ahead on the growth spurts or whatever you call them. He’s going to be taller than me when we’re grown up, though, I just know it. How were your hols? Mine were brilliant. Best summer _ever._ Best birthday ever. I got a bike! But that wasn’t the best part. It was just a brilliant day. We went to the beach, got fish ‘n’ chips. Didn’t get home till eleven. Have you _seen_ the sea at night, Bodie? And the moon, and my _God,_ when we ...’ 

_When you_ what, _Jon?_

Draper made a quick recovery, hastily answering the unspoken question. ‘Well, nothing else really. Did you see that friend of yours from junior school you were talking about?’

‘Which question d’you want me to answer first?’ Bodie asked, laughing.

_What did you do?_

‘Well, the one about the sea was rhetorical.’

‘Rhe-what?’

_I know you were talking about Hal. What did you_ do, _Jon?_

‘It means it doesn’t need a direct answer.’

‘OK. Well, I saw Tommy, yeah. Saw ‘im a few times. And my summer was fine, thanks.’

‘That’s great. Smashing. _Splendid.’_ He made his voice posher and higher-pitched with each adjective, and Bodie laughed. ‘Oh, Christ, I wish Hal’s father would let him come by train.’

‘Didn’t you see him in the holidays?’ asked Bodie. From the way Draper had said ‘we’ in his speech before, Haley had at least been around for his birthday.

‘Course I did,’ Draper said impatiently. ‘Saw him a week ago. Doesn’t make the train ride any less boring. Hey, when we get going, d’you want to nick a soda syphon from the dining car? We could soak some of the new first-years.’

‘Yes, and Father Repton will _murder_ us.’

Father Repton was the first form master, and taught geography. He behaved like a benevolent shepherd to his own class, but he was like a bear to the older boys: you avoided poking him at all costs.

‘Not if we just stick the syphon through the compartment door and don’t let them see it’s us.’

Draper put on an appealing look. He reminded Bodie so much of Quinn and Adams hatching a new scheme, that he couldn’t help but give in.

‘Oh, all right.’

_‘Yes._ Well, you’d better find your seat, Bodie. I’ll meet you in the corridor half an hour after we start, OK?’

‘OK,’ said Bodie.

The soda syphon trick worked, and they managed to get away before Father Repton could catch them, hiding out in one of the lavatories and stuffing their hankies in their mouths to keep from laughing out loud. After that, Bodie went to join the rest of his form, and Draper, taking a volume of poetry from his blazer pocket, said he was going to look for somewhere quiet to read. In an instant, like an actor switching off a role, he stopped being the class clown and became the sombre, serious boy who quoted sonnets and saw dreaming spires in his future. This was a side to Draper that Bodie had only latterly got to know. He could sigh over literature as easily as he could joke with it. He looked forward to the learning at Oxford as much as what he mischievously termed 'loose living'. Bodie was almost jealous — he enjoyed English, but Draper seemed practically to breathe it at times.

When the train arrived at the station, the boys filed out onto the platform, where teachers divided them into groups and ushered them onto coaches. It was a ten minute drive between the station and the school. Bodie sat next to Draper again, and listened to a digest of the rules of poker, which his dad had finally got round to teaching him. 

'I can't believe your dad taught you a betting game, when he's a copper,' said Bodie.

'My dad can be fun,' Draper answered, shrugging. 'Anyway, he's no idiot. He knows I'd just go to the library and look it up. At least if he teaches me he gets to inculcate a moral lesson while he's doing it.'

'Your dad does sound fun,' admitted Bodie. _Like mine_ used _to be._

They were soon pulling into the school drive. It was a chaos Bodie recognised: cars, boys, their parents, and their luggage were everywhere. He spotted Haley, standing under a tree near where the coaches pulled up. He looked slim, long-legged and quite mature, now he'd grown a few more inches. His dark hair was swept off his high, pale forehead, and his eyes shone as if he anticipated something wonderful. Bodie heard, unmistakably, Draper's breath catch in his throat.

_Hal is beautiful,_ Bodie thought. _There's no other word for it. Maybe Jon's just proud to be his best friend. I would be._

The boys filed off the coach and joined the throng, waving and shouting at friends. School porters came forward to empty the luggage compartments and take the trunks up to the dormitories. Draper strode towards Haley, who came forward to meet him. They hugged like they hadn’t seen each other in a month. Bodie’s stomach flipped. He couldn’t make himself look away.

‘My _God_ that was a long fucking week,’ Bodie heard Draper mutter. Haley tightened his arms around him, briefly, then pulled away with a smile on his face. 

Catching sight of Bodie, he transferred the smile to him, and stepped forward with his hand outstretched. Somehow, seeing the affection between his two friends cheered Bodie up, so he had no problem returning Haley’s grin as they shook hands.

‘Hello, Bodie! I didn’t see you there.’

_Big surprise,_ thought Bodie. 

‘Good summer?’ Haley asked.

‘Fine, thanks. You?’

‘Brilliant. Best summer ever.’

_Sounds familiar,_ thought Bodie, as Haley turned back to Draper.

‘Hey, Jonny. I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘What?’

Haley whispered something in his ear. Bodie didn’t catch it, but it made Draper’s smile widen until he almost literally grinned from ear to ear.

‘That’s funny, I was just going to tell you the same thing.’

‘Will!’

Corin Adams’ voice floated through the noise. He was the only one at the school whom Bodie ever allowed to call him by his first name. Having been bullied because of his, Adams saw the use of them as a mark of friendship and trust, and Bodie was happy enough to go along with it for his sake. He scanned the crowd for Adams, with an eye and an ear on the others’ conversation.

‘... just wanted to get underway, I suppose.’

‘But everything’s alright?’

‘Much as it ever is.’

‘Aww, Hal.’ Draper flung an arm around him and squeezed his shoulders. ‘Just you wait till we leave school.’

‘Yeah, well, it seems very far away just now.’ Haley smiled weakly. ‘Anyway, school itself has its advantages.’

‘Speaking of which ...’

‘Yes,’ Haley interrupted. ‘I booked the court. Every Friday.’

‘Including this one?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Good, because it looks like rain, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s being cooped up in the common room when it’s chucking it down and every man jack of us is crammed into ...’

Bodie spotted Adams coming in the direction of the coaches, waved, and started to walk towards him.

‘Oi, you idiot, your bike’s about to get run over!’ Adams greeted him.

Bodie turned to look, and rushed back to the coach, where someone had left his bike leaning against the back wheel. He’d forgotten all about it.

‘That wouldn’t’ve been pretty, if the coach had pulled out,’ said Adams. He grinned and clapped Bodie on the shoulder. ‘How are you, anyway, apart from a scatterbrain?’

‘Oh, fine,’ Bodie replied. He was sick of saying it. There was no way he was going to regale Adams, or anyone, with details about his home life, especially when his own feelings about it were so mixed up.

‘Well, come on, let’s go and put our bikes away. Quinn’s been here for a couple of hours; he already reserved us the best beds in the dormitory. What d’you say to going for a ride this afternoon? Weather looks a bit dodgy, but a bit of mud and rain never hurt anyone. You weren’t here on the first day last September, were you? Winter term always starts off more leisurely than the others because we go back on a Friday. We don’t have to do anything school-ish till next week, and there’s a whole weekend with nothing to worry about but confession and Father Mansell’s start-of-term homily.’ Adams rubbed his hands together and grinned in anticipation.

‘Sounds good to me,’ said Bodie.

‘Oh, we’ll see some fun, don’t you worry about that,’ said Adams, with a distinctly wicked glint in his eye. ‘I wish you could’ve come to stay when Quinn did. You know the story; I’m not allowed to have more than one friend over at once, not to stay anyway. I really must try and convince Mother that you’re fine upstanding citizens and all that guff. Mind you, that’ll be even harder now ...’

Adams tugged at Bodie’s sleeve and dragged him off to the front steps of the main school building, where he’d left his stuff. As they wheeled their bikes around to the back of the school, Bodie listened appreciatively to a story about Quinn putting his foot through the attic floor and nearly giving Adams’ grandmother a heart attack, and only once allowed his eyes to drift, irresistibly, to a familiar pair of figures walking towards the residential houses. 

It wasn’t the last time that day that he would wonder about Haley and Draper.


	6. Chapter 6

Bodie and Adams finished their unpacking in time to join the rest of the school for a late lunch in the dining hall. Adams asked Quinn to join them on their ride that afternoon, but Quinn had cooked up some scheme with his brother in the upper fourth, to 'welcome' the new English teacher.

‘What’s happened to Father Walters?’ asked Bodie.

‘Didn’t you hear? He’s taking over as Head. Father Mansell was taken ill at the end of the hols; his doctor advised him to take early retirement, so he has. They’re announcing it officially at supper, but I thought everyone knew.’

‘Who’s the new teacher? Is he a priest?’

‘Yeah. Father Thompson, his name is. He’s going to be housemaster of Dicks, so we won’t see him much. Walt’s sticking with us, worse luck.’

‘Well, don’t get on Thompson’s bad side _too_ soon, Quinn,’ Adams advised. ‘You don’t know what he’s like yet. He might be the type to make you bottom of the class just because he doesn’t like you.'

'I don't need _dislike_ for that,' Quinn retorted. He hated English, because he had a problem with reading — 'some of the letters come out backwards,' he'd explained to them once. 'Thompson can't be any worse than Walters.'

'Don't be so sure,' said Bodie. 'Walt might be a grumpy bastard, but at least he was fair as a teacher.’

‘Don’t worry your pretty head, young William,’ Quinn answered, in a high-pitched voice that made Bodie giggle during a sip of water, and get hiccups. ‘We don’t intend to get caught.’

Adams banged Bodie on the back unnecessarily hard. Quinn poured him another glass of water, then got out his sketchbook and started drawing him.

‘Typical,’ said Adams. ‘Come on, Will, hurry up. I want to get to the sweet shop before it shuts, and I think we’ll have to go back to Bart’s for our raincoats.’

Bodie was still hiccupping when they got to their dormitory. Their raincoats were in the big, antique wardrobe in which the boys all kept their shoes and outerwear. They each had a smaller, simpler cabinet to store their other clothes.

‘Ooh, I’ve still got some peppermints in here,’ said Adams, as he delved into his pockets. ‘Want one? It might help shift your hiccups.’

‘Thanks,’ said Bodie, although he doubted it. He felt in his own pockets, but all that was in there was a hanky, thankfully clean, and a key, on a keyring with a little wooden tag attached that had the number 4 painted on it. He pulled the key out and looked at it, frowning.

‘Isn’t that one of the squash court locker keys?’ asked Adams, squinting at it.

‘Oh yeah — _hic!_ — it is too,’ Bodie said, remembering. Then he grinned. _‘That’s_ where I left my spare sports kit! I’ve been wracking my brains — my stepmother wasn’t half — _hic!_ — cross when I came home one outfit short. I think I left a towel in there, too.’

‘Well, you’d better take it back, or Blatch’ll have your head.’

Mr Blatch was the school caretaker. He wasn’t actually allowed to cane the boys, but it didn’t stop him threatening them at every opportunity, and having him shout at them was unpleasant enough.

‘I’ll do it on the way back,’ said Bodie. ‘Hey, I think my hiccups have gone! Come on, let’s get our bikes.’

It was starting to rain when they got back outside. They buttoned up their coats, pulled up their hoods, and headed for the bike sheds, squinting into the drizzle.

‘You ever been behind there with anyone?’ Adams asked, as they jogged along the gravel path towards the sheds. The area looked deserted; obviously none of the other boys had felt like braving the weather.

‘You make it sound like an assignation,’ Bodie remarked with a grin.

‘Ooh, who ate a dictionary for his breakfast this morning?’

‘Shut up.’

‘That’s a good one, actually. “Ass”-ignation.’ He spoke the first syllable in an American accent. Bodie hoped his laugh didn’t sound as nervous to Adams as it did in his own head. That sort of talk could betray his relative innocence on the subject. But Adams went on as if he hadn’t noticed.

‘Course, if you want that sort of thing, you want the empty attic next to the one where the trunks are kept — that’s if you’re a Bart’s man — or the boiler room near the kitchens. So I’ve heard.’

‘Just _heard,_ Corin?’ Bodie teased.

‘Believe me, yes,’ Adams said fervently, as he and Bodie wheeled out their bikes. ‘I don’t think I could take buggery. I mean, you know what it’s like when you come up hard.’

Bodie nodded — at least he _did_ know, now. It had started during the summer holidays: strange, half-remembered dreams, pressure and aching and release, a too-frequent desire to touch.

‘Well, imagine that up your, erm ...’

‘Ugh, no!’ Bodie said, shaking his head and laughing, as if he’d known about it all along. He got on his bike and rode away, shouting ‘Come on!’ over his shoulder, and trying not to speculate to himself about what being buggered might feel like — not that he came up with much beyond 'ouch'. Adams called him a tosser and hastened after him. They raced towards the town, pedalling hard despite the rain, ignoring the mud that splattered up from their tyres and onto their trouser legs. They exchanged their usual repertoire of insults, the ones that had stung when they were enemies, but were now good-natured: Bodie called Adams a toffee-nosed sissy; Adams called him a guttersnipe, and so on. They were both good riders, but Adams was more experienced, and Bodie had to use a trick Tommy had taught him in order to keep up, when Adams nearly lost him on a steep slope.

‘How in the world did you do _that?’_ Adams demanded, and Bodie spent the next half hour trying to teach him. They only stopped because a policeman walked by and threatened to ring the headmaster if they didn’t pack it in. Someone, he insisted, could get hurt.

‘Time to stock up on teeth-rotting dinner spoilers, I say,’ said Adams, and ushered Bodie in the direction of the sweet shop. With their mouths full of toffee and their pockets stuffed with all sorts of other goodies, the boys rode back to school. It had stopped raining, and their mud-splattered trousers were starting to dry. They pushed back their hoods and cycled fast. Bodie felt the wind in his hair and couldn’t wait till he was grown up, so he could get a motorcycle.

‘Me too!’ Adams shouted back, when Bodie voiced this thought aloud. ‘I’m going to get one of those big American things. I saw them in that film, you know — what was it called?’

Bodie never found out if Adams remembered. Concentrating as he was on their conversation, he wasn’t properly looking where he was going. His front tyre hit a rut, he was pitched over the handlebars, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting on his backside at the side of the road, in a foot and a half of cold, muddy water, with his friend’s laughter ringing in his ears.

‘Shut up, will you, and help me out of here!’ he shouted. Still giggling unrepentantly, Adams offered him a hand.

‘Cheer up, Will — at least some of your sweets might be alright.’

‘I doubt it,’ Bodie muttered, trying to shake mud off the ends of his fingers. ‘Half my pocket money, those cost me.’

‘Well you shouldn’t’ve spent so much at once!’ said Adams, unsympathetically. He gave Bodie a reassuring grin, though, and stood his bike up for him. ‘Come on, you old misery. We’re only a hundred yards from school. I’ll take our bikes back, you go on up to Bart’s and get in a hot bath.’

‘Thanks.’

They parted at the school gates. Bodie was about to take the shorter side road up to the houses, when he remembered the key in his pocket. He hurried to catch up with Adams once more.

‘Hey — wait for me! I’ve just thought, I’ll shower at the squash court. Got a change of clothes there, haven’t I?’

‘It’s closer,’ Adams said with a shrug. ‘You might as well. I’ll see you at supper.’

He turned down the path to the bike sheds, and Bodie carried on towards the squash court. As he reached the low, brick building (the court itself was built down into the ground, and you had to go down a spiral staircase to reach it), it occurred to him that Haley and Draper were booked in, and they’d probably be there now. But at least they were friends, so they were unlikely to tell him to push off. Unless his earlier speculations were right, in which case they might not be playing squash at all ...

Bodie hesitated at the door. If they were at it, those weekly games of squash would be an ideal opportunity to be alone together. Was this something he wanted to walk in on? They were three forms above him, and Haley was almost sixteen. It was hardly likely to be a shared wank they were enjoying in there.

 _It’s no good,_ he thought. _I’ve got to know. I don’t know why, but I’ve got to know._

He took off his wet, muddy coat and footwear, bundled them up under one arm, and entered the building very slowly and quietly. He made sure the door didn’t bang behind him. He was at one end of a long corridor, looking straight at the door to the changing room, about thirty feet away. In between was an open gallery through which spectators could watch the players down below. If he wasn’t careful, Haley and Draper would hear him coming, and once he entered the gallery they’d look up and see him.

The first sounds that hit his ears, however, were those of a squash game going on, and a pretty fast one at that. He also heard laughter. Then he heard a bump, then more laughter, and something about playing amidst distraction. But although it seemed innocent enough, he still didn’t want them to know he was there. Surely if they were going to do anything it would be in the showers, after the game. He ducked down and crept along the length of the gallery. Below him, the game continued, the players oblivious.

He stole through the door and into the changing room: a long, dimly lit space that was divided partially in two by a wall of close-set wooden slats. On one side were the showers. On the other were hooks, benches, pigeon holes and lockers. As soon as he entered he was hit by a wall of heat, pleasant after his fall into the puddle. He hung his coat up on one of the pegs, took the key from his pocket, and opened locker number four. Sure enough, his kit was still inside. He wondered whether to have his shower now, rather than wait for Haley and Draper to have been and gone. He felt a bit guilty spying on them. If he was in the shower, or getting dressed, when they arrived, he’d be able to tell them truthfully why he was there, and then leave them to it.

The clatter of footsteps on the stairs made his decision for him. Without knowing quite why he did it, Bodie grabbed his coat, stuffed it into the end locker, and then got inside himself, pulling the door to. He had a reasonable view past the partition and into the showers from there. His heart thumped in his chest. If they caught him now, he’d really have some explaining to do. He wasn’t sure if he _could_ explain it, even to himself.

The changing room door opened. Bodie hardly dared to breathe.

‘Right.’ Draper’s voice. ‘Come on, then.’

‘What’s the hurry?’ Haley’s voice, teasing. There were rustling sounds, laughter, and darting footsteps, as if they were scuffling with each other.

‘No! Not yet.’ Haley’s voice again. ‘Let’s get under the water first.’

 _Oh my God,_ Bodie thought. Was he jumping to conclusions? _Come on — what_ else _can they be talking about?_

More rustling, obviously the removal of clothes. Lockers were opened and shut — Bodie held his breath as one of them passed close to him, but they didn’t realise; why would they? Who hid out in a locker to spy on his friends in case they were queer? _I’m despicable,_ thought Bodie, remembering a word from his English vocab test last term. _But I can’t help it. And there’s no going back now, anyway._

They came into his eyeline, both nude. Bodie was fascinated by their bodies, older and yet not adult. He had seen Draper before: solid as he looked in uniform and on the rugby field, his body hard and athletic, his chest and stomach slightly peppered with hair a little darker than what was on his head. The hair at his groin was darker again, and thicker. His genitals were larger and appeared heavier than those of any of Bodie’s form, and his cock was erect, impressive-looking. Haley’s was halfway there, too, rising from a thatch of dark hair between his legs. By contrast, his lean torso was virtually hairless, his limbs long and slender, and the light in the changing room made his pale skin look lightly golden, his eyes large and luminous. His hair, sweaty from the exercise, had curled more than usual, making him look like a Greek god in the pictures Bodie had seen in textbooks: all those names Haley had pointed out and helped him learn to write.

It was at that point that Bodie realised he was hardening, and not only in sympathy with the older boys. He was looking at them. He was _aroused_ by them. Haley in particular — so utterly gorgeous — beautiful as a girl in some ways — except that he was definitely male, and seeming to become more so by the second.

They turned on the water then, and both cried out in discomfort, stepping backwards. Bodie bit back a sigh of disappointment at his loss of view.

‘Brrr! It’s freezing!’ Haley said, laughing.

‘It’s good for you,’ Draper replied. ‘Make you last longer.’

Two hands reached out cautiously to test the water, then they both stepped back into view again. Bodie watched, mesmerised, as the water ran down their naked bodies. The hardness was becoming an ache now. He unbuttoned his trousers to let it out. Just to relieve the pressure. It didn’t mean he had to touch. He wouldn’t touch. That wouldn’t be right.

Draper stepped up close to Haley, wrapped his arms around him from behind.

 _‘Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control within the thrilling brain could keep afloat the subtle spirit,’_ he said softly.

Haley turned his face sideways to fix his friend with a bemused smile.

‘What’s that?’

‘Tennyson,’ Draper answered.

‘Typical,’ Haley said, rolling his eyes. But he had sighed the word, and he smiled in a way that Bodie could only have described as loving. Haley turned in Draper’s embrace, slipped his arms around his neck.

‘God, Jonny, I’ve missed you.’

They pulled each other close. Their lips met.

As sure as Bodie had been about the real nature of their relationship, no suspicion could have prepared him for what it would _look_ like. He clapped one hand to his mouth, while the other moved irresistibly downwards, almost before he realised what he was doing. The sight of them set his body aflame with desire, of an intensity he’d never felt before. He _had_ to touch. The two older boys were pressed together, the whole length of their bodies, and they both thrust their hips forward as they kissed, deeply and passionately. Bodie watched them with something between shock and envy — how that must _feel_ … and, worse, he found himself wanting to find out. A thought of unimaginable wickedness, if he were to take most of the adult voices in his life as truth.

_But if it’s love, like Jon and Hal … how evil can love be?_

At last, Haley and Draper broke apart, gasping. Bodie could see that they weren’t finished yet, but it must have been strenuous, what they were doing. Their eyes — both pairs uniquely, and equally, beautiful to Bodie at that moment — met in an intense, almost incredulous, mutual stare. Then, so fast that their bodies collided with an audible slap of skin on skin, they embraced each other tightly.

‘I love you,’ Draper murmured, kissing Haley’s temple, then his cheek, then all along his jaw, rough kisses between quick, loud breaths, and Haley threw his head back, his eyelids fluttering closed, his mouth falling open. Bodie had to bite his lip to keep from groaning out loud at the sight. As he kissed Haley, Draper’s hands roved over his torso as if memorising him by touch.

‘I love you,’ he repeated.

‘Jon...’

‘Love you so much, Hal. Love you forever.’

‘Oh, God ...’

Haley clutched Draper still tighter. They were both grinding again, getting faster, and Bodie, cramped in his hiding place, was starting to lose control.

‘I’m not going to last,’ Haley whispered.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Draper replied. He grabbed hold of Haley’s buttocks and pulled him forward, harder. ‘Me neither. ‘S been too long ... even a week ... too fucking long ...’

They kissed again, and didn’t stop kissing until it was over. Then they were holding each other tight, both shaking, and Bodie himself was shaking, so that he was afraid he might shake the locker and give himself away. But he didn’t. He stood in the small, dark space, conscious of the warm, sticky substance on his fingers, his heart and mind both racing, terrified of what all this might mean.


	7. Chapter 7

It felt like a very long time to Bodie, before Haley and Draper got dressed and left. The locker was cramped, and his wet clothes were making him uncomfortable. He was too conscious of what he’d done; his head was spinning, his legs felt weak, and his skin was clammy with sweat. He watched his two friends standing under the water, languid and leisurely now, washing themselves and each other, their ablutions gradually becoming less practical, turning to caresses. They grew playful, pretending to dodge each other’s advances, laughing, then coming back together with hands gliding over slippery skin to clasp each other’s bodies. Bodie wondered if they were going to start all over again; but, at last, they turned off the water. 

They stood for a moment in silence, with the dripping of the shower heads, and the trickling of water down the drain, the only sounds to be heard. Then Draper turned to Haley, ran his fingers through his clean, wet hair, kissed his lips and neck.

‘I love you,’ he murmured, once again. Then he laughed at himself. ‘Sorry — just feels so good to be able to _say_ it. I haven’t got used to it yet.’

‘Idiot. D’you know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that?’

‘Since we were thirteen.’ Draper pulled away to smile at him. ‘Not quite as long as me, but a long time. If what you told me on my birthday was true.’

Haley touched his cheek, leaned forward so they rubbed noses. ‘Of course it was. And do you know what that means?’

‘That you love me back.’

‘Not just that. It means that in five years’ time, ten years, twenty years, you and I will be in a bed somewhere ...’

‘... in our bohemian flat in London ...’

‘... there, then, and we’ll make love all night ...’

‘... and all the next ...’

‘... whenever we like, as _often_ as we like,’ Haley said. ‘And when we’ve finished we won’t have to put our clothes on and rush back to school in time for prep. We can fall asleep in each other’s arms if we want to. Every night, forever, Jon.’

‘If you can make that start tomorrow, I’ll be happy.’ Draper’s voice was sleepy, and muffled by Haley’s collarbone. For the first time, he seemed the vulnerable one of the pair.

‘Are you _un_ happy now, beloved?’

‘Not now, no.’ Draper looked up and gave Haley a rueful smile. ‘Not when I’m here with you and you say things like that. But you hit the nail right on the head, Hal. We have to put our clothes on and rush back to school in time for whatever they’ve scheduled for us. We’re trapped inside this bloody stupid, hypocritical system, and we’ve no choice but to conform to it. We’ve still got two more years of priests telling us we’ll go to hell for touching _ourselves,_ let alone each other. We’re expected to turn up at the chapel every Saturday and confess our sins — well, I don’t happen to _believe_ in sin, Hal. I don’t believe any of it. They make us pray and I don’t mean a single word. Even in the holidays, we have to live in fear of getting caught and your dad finding out.’

Draper’s voice cracked as he finished his sentence. A moment later he threw his arms around Haley and hugged him hard.

‘I get so scared, Hal, thinking about ... God, if anything happens to you because of me ...’

‘It’s not because of you,’ Haley soothed him, squeezing his shoulders and stroking his hair. ‘It’s what I am. Well, what we both are. I can’t help it any more than you can. If my father has me committed it won’t make a blind bit of difference to what I am, or how I feel about you. I’ll pretend to be cured, and the moment I turn twenty-one, I’ll be free of him.’

‘You don’t understand. I’ve read all about it. People have _died._ Or get permanently damaged, or at the very least, all those so-called treatments _hurt;_ they’re torture! Don’t tell me it doesn’t frighten you.’

‘Of course it frightens me; it bloody terrifies me. That’s why we’re so careful, isn’t it? We've never done _anything_ when my father could catch us. If you think for one minute that I’d give you up ...’

He trailed off, and Draper didn’t answer. Time passed — how much, Bodie didn’t know — then they finally dried and dressed themselves, packed up their gear, and left. The changing room door swung and banged; footsteps retreated along the gallery, then, in the distance, the outer door opened and shut.

_You get put in a looney bin for being queer?_ Bodie shivered. He hadn’t known that. Slowly, and rubbing his stiff arms and legs, he stepped out of the locker. He stripped off his damp clothes and took out his spares. A glance at his wristwatch told him there was only half an hour till supper. He showered quickly, but thoroughly. He felt filthy after what he’d done. If anyone found out ... 

_Bloody hell,_ he thought. _Corin’ll wonder what happened to me — what do I tell him? That I lost track of time?_

It sounded reasonable enough, on reflection. And Adams was unlikely to tell Haley and Draper that Bodie had been at the squash court that afternoon. Bodie wasn’t sure Adams had ever so much as spoken to the older boys. His heart was pounding as he towelled himself dry and struggled quickly into his clean, if musty clothes, but he was starting to reassure himself that it would be all right.

He stuffed his wet things into his sports bag, and shrugged on his coat. The heat in the changing room was starting to feel oppressive, and he looked forward to being out in the fresh autumn air. He also looked forward to going in to supper, finding out whether Quinn’s trick on the new English master had worked, the traditional bet on what sin the start-of-term sermon would condemn first — just normal, schoolboyish things, as far away from this surreal, confusing afternoon as he could get. 

Contrary to his expectations, he found that thanks to the deep, waterproof pockets of his coat, most of his sweets had survived the fall into the puddle. He grinned at his good luck as he opened the changing room door, and wondered whether to pop a toffee or a peppermint into his mouth for the walk back. The next thing he knew was shock, as someone grabbed him roughly by the collar, and yanked him forward into the gallery.

‘You little bastard spy,’ Draper whispered harshly into his ear. ‘D’you think I’m stupid? D’you think I wouldn’t know someone was in there? You’re lucky I didn’t realise till we were walking out. If I’d caught you before that I’d’ve kicked you in the knackers till you chucked up your dinner, then fucking drowned you in it.’

‘I didn’t mean it!’ Bodie gasped. He cried out in panic as Draper picked him up and held him over the low gallery wall. ‘For God’s sake, Jon, please, I can explain!’

‘Explain why you were hiding out in there, watching us? I’ll look forward to that; I could do with a good laugh. Did you think a nice bit of gossip would increase your standing with your fickle little friends, eh? Or were you going to sneak on us like a stupid little kid? Do you know what would happen if our parents found out? Do you have _any idea ...’_

‘I wouldn’t! I never would!’ Bodie whimpered as Draper inched him a little further over the edge. The words all tumbled out in his hurry to explain. ‘Didn’t mean to spy on you ... fell off me bike, got soaked ... only going to have a shower ... but then I heard you two coming up the stairs, and I ... hid.’

He trailed off, realising how feeble he sounded. There was good enough reason for him being at the squash court in the first place, but no reason at all for him to have hidden himself away.

‘Why?’ Draper shook him, and repeated: ‘Why?’

‘I just ...’ Bodie gazed at him, pleadingly, desperately, willing him to relent. He had no doubt, from the expression in Draper’s eyes, that he was quite capable of doing what he threatened. Water from Bodie’s hair mingled with sweat on his forehead, ran down to join the tears in his eyes. His vision blurred; he blinked, and the drops fell onto his cheeks.

‘I needed to know,’ he confessed. ‘I’d wondered about you, and I just — needed to know.’

‘Who else?’ Draper demanded through clenched teeth. ‘Who talks about us?’

‘No one,’ said Bodie, frowning. ‘No one I’ve spoken to, anyway.’

‘And you haven’t discussed your _wonderings_ with anyone else?’

‘Of course I haven’t! You’re my friends! I don’t gossip about friends. You’ve got it all wrong, Jonny. I didn’t mean this to happen.’

‘You were just being nosy, is that it?’

‘I don’t know.’ The wretched feeling was back with a vengeance, and Bodie’s tears were flowing freely now. He had never been so horribly, deeply ashamed; nor had he been so terrified. Draper’s expression might have softened slightly, but he was still holding him over the gallery wall.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Please let me go, Jon. I’m sorry.’

‘You swear you won’t tell on us?’

‘I swear.’

‘Knowing that if anyone finds out from now on, I’ll know where they got it from, and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born?’

Even in the midst of his fear, that piqued Bodie’s sense of honour, and he managed to summon up some genuine indignation into his answer.

‘Knowing you’re my friends and I wouldn’t betray you!’

Draper heaved a sigh. He eased Bodie back onto his feet, stepped back from him, held up his hands in a peace-making gesture. He scratched the back of his neck and looked at his shoes, and Bodie could almost see the cogs turning in his head as he worked out what to say next. Bodie wanted to run, but he couldn’t make his feet move. Too big a part of him wanted to hear Draper out, and it cancelled out the fear.

‘So you wondered about us?’ Draper finally asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Bodie, pulling his coat straight. ‘You’re so close, you and Hal.’

Draper shook his head in disgust. ‘You’ve a filthy mind, Bodie.’

‘Not so filthy,’ Bodie replied. He looked up into Draper’s flushed, still-angry face. His stomach twisted, so much that he felt sick, but he knew he had to confess what had been worrying him. Who else was he going to tell? 

_Maybe if I do, he won't kill me,_ he added to himself.

‘What you two are — I think I am, too. Maybe that’s why I could ...’

_‘What?’_ Draper cut him off. ‘You’re twelve!’

‘How long have you been in love with Hal?’

Draper dropped his eyes. ‘Fair point.’ Then he grabbed Bodie's arm; Bodie, instinctively, shrunk back from him, but the expression on Draper’s face was sympathetic, not angry any longer. 

‘Christ, Bodie, are you sure?' he asked, biting his lip. His eyes were wide with concern. 'Do you fancy boys? Do you not fancy girls?’

‘Well, erm ...’ 

Bodie gave this some thought. He still thought girls were, generally speaking, stupid. But over the summer he’d begun to notice, in more than the vague way he had before, that some were prettier than others. Those dreams he’d started having were about girls — although, he admitted to himself for the first time, not _all._ He hadn’t been truly aware of fancying boys until today, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell Draper _who,_ in particular, had triggered that realisation.

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I think I like both. That sounds worse, somehow, doesn’t it?’

‘Not so much.’ Draper slid down the gallery wall to sit on the floor. He patted the empty space next to him, and Bodie, sensing he could trust him for the moment, sat down. Without making eye contact, Draper went on: ‘I’m the same as you. Hal’s not. He’s homosexual, through and through. Always has been. But I like girls too. If it weren’t for Hal I’d just stick to them, pretend I was normal. It’s what you should do, too, Bodie. Don’t be queer if you can manage not to be.’

‘I heard what you and Hal said. About being put away.’

‘That’s right, yeah.’ Draper shuddered. ‘If you’re not called a criminal you’re called a fucking mental case. And Hal’s dad’s a bigot. Mine’s not so bad, but he’s a copper. Anything illegal, he’s against it. Doesn’t matter what he _actually_ thinks of it, morally I mean. He might not have me committed, but he sure as hell wouldn’t let me see Hal anymore. He’d have me out of this place and into some dead-end job faster than you could say Jack Robinson. A-levels, university, career, gone like’ — he snapped his fingers — _‘that._ He hates privilege enough as it is, without him thinking it’s turned his only son queer. But never mind me; it’s Hal I’m scared for.’

‘You really love him, don’t you? I mean — _really.’_ There was awe in Bodie’s voice. Draper gave him an odd look: understanding, amused, and passionate, all at once.

‘Yeah. I do. I love him like ...' Draper closed his eyes, and appeared to check himself. He turned sideways, so he almost faced Bodie. ‘That’s just the way it is for me. I can’t help it. But, Bodie, _you_ can. You can’t change what you are, mate, but as long as you have the choice, take my advice. Don’t choose boys. I know, it sounds hypocritical. What I mean is, not for anything less than love. Like real, beautiful, earth-shattering love. The sort that means you don’t _have_ a choice. That rips your heart out, rewires it, puts it back in so it runs better than ever.’

Bodie’s lips curled, irresistibly, upward.

‘Alright, mock,’ Draper said, smiling a little himself. ‘I know I’ve an odd way of talking sometimes. If you feel it you’ll know it, that’s all. I hope you feel it for a girl. Then you can avoid all this hassle and still be happy; but for Christ’s sake, Bodie, if you _do_ ever fall that hard for a boy — for a man — whatever you do, don’t walk away from it. Don’t fuck it up. And don’t let someone _else_ fuck it up for you.’

Bodie couldn’t help flinching at the look that came into Draper’s eyes with those last words. But if Draper was sorry for scaring him — again — he didn’t show it. He grabbed Bodie’s coat collar again, and his gaze, like his voice, became so fierce and intense that Bodie wondered if he was in danger again, and how he might fight Draper off before he had him over the wall for a second time.

‘I mean to hold onto Hal no matter what. He’s everything to me, d’you understand? I won’t see him hurt.’

‘I believe you,’ Bodie whispered. ‘Like I said, no one’s going to hear anything from me.’

Draper nodded, seemingly resigned, and let him go. He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms over his knees.

‘His home life’s miserable, Bodie. His mum died when he was a baby; he doesn’t remember her. He’s been brought up entirely by his dad and a string of governesses who always left because they couldn’t stand his dad’s manner. He couldn’t remember ever being hugged before he met me. Can you believe it? A boy like Hal, starved of love like that. Well, I love him enough for all those bastards, and then some. I mean to be there for him till the day I die.’

He stopped speaking. Bodie, taken aback, couldn’t think of an answer for any of it, so for a few minutes they sat in silence. Bodie listened to Draper’s breathing: it slowed and deepened, as if he were deliberately trying to calm himself down. He knocked his head back against the wall, slowly, softly, rhythmically. His hair, still damp from the shower, lifted slightly with every movement. Eventually, he relaxed, and let his head loll in Bodie’s direction.

‘Look here, Bodie. I’m sorry I put the wind up you like that. I was probably as scared as you when I realised someone was watching us. I’m glad it was you if it had to be anyone. You’re not vindictive. You were just being curious.’

‘That’s right, I was,’ said Bodie. Aware of the slight defensiveness in his voice, he amended: ‘But I shouldn’t have been.’

‘It’s alright,’ said Draper. ‘Far as I’m concerned, we’re still mates.’

‘Are you going to tell Hal?’

‘Yes, of course. But I’ll explain it to him so he doesn’t get angry.’

‘Thanks,’ Bodie muttered.

‘Alright, come on,’ said Draper, getting to his feet and putting down a hand to help Bodie up. ‘If we’re late for supper it’ll only look odd. And I told Hal I was only coming back for my towel; he’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’

They walked back up to the school together, mostly in silence. But far from feeling awkward, or fearing Draper’s presence on the cold, deserted path, Bodie felt closer to him than he had before. He would never forget Draper’s kindness to him when he first came to the school, nor, indeed, the threat he had posed when they were alone at the court. But the secret they shared, the knowledge of this thing they had in common, the feelings Draper had confided, were a new source of admiration and respect. Something more than companionship bound them together now.


	8. Chapter 8

The next day was a Saturday, and the boys were all expected to attend confession. Bodie’s stomach lurched as he took his place in the booth and looked timidly through the screen at the half-hidden face of the priest. This time, however, it wasn’t a face or voice he knew. It must have been Father Thompson, the new English teacher. He had none of Father Mansell’s fire and brimstone, or Father Repton’s deep, intimidating voice, or even Father Walters’ air of quiet disappointment, which could feel worst of all. There was a reassuring kindliness in the new priest’s manner. Bodie was almost tempted to confess what had happened yesterday, get it off his chest, but then he thought of Draper’s eyes as he’d held him over the gallery wall, and his mouth went dry. The words wouldn’t come. When he was asked what sins he had committed, he stuck to one of the basics.

‘Anger, Father.’

‘With whom are you angry?’

‘My family.’

‘Why is that, my son?’

‘I don’t really know.’

‘All anger has a reason behind it,’ said Father Thompson. ‘I suggest you search for that reason. Once you find it you can conquer it. Learn to forgive — as God will forgive you.’

_I’ll never forgive Dad,_ Bodie thought. The remaining words of the sacrament, as he said them, seemed empty. He listened to his penance with no intention of carrying it out. What was the use?

When he left the chapel, Draper was standing outside. With no other greeting, he asked: ‘Did you confess?’

Bodie knew what he was asking. ‘Not about yesterday.’

Draper’s face relaxed into a grin. ‘I made something up. How fast can you say a Hail Mary? My record’s nine and a half seconds. Roger Morton did it in seven once. The speed Hal talks sometimes I bet he’d beat us all, only he takes it seriously.’

‘I’ve never bothered,’ said Bodie, with a shrug.

Draper nodded. ‘You’re probably more virtuous than us all, then. I’m just waiting for Hal, want to stick around with me?’

‘Aren’t you worried that Hal might confess, since he takes it seriously?’

‘I asked him that once. He said I’d no right to ask. But I don’t think he’d tell anything specific. He’s not stupid.’

They waited in silence. Bodie felt rather nervous about seeing Haley, after yesterday. By now, Draper would have told him about Bodie hiding in the changing room. He didn’t dare ask Draper how Haley had reacted. But when Haley did emerge from the chapel, he smiled and said hello as he always did, and they all began to walk back to Bart’s together. They had to wear their school uniforms to confession, so most boys went straight to their dormitories and changed afterwards.

When they were along a little way, and they were shielded on either side by the box hedges that flanked the path to the houses, Bodie saw Haley look around, and behind them. With no one else about, he put his arm around Draper’s shoulders and rested his head against his neck as they walked. Bodie knew, then, that it was all right.

* * * * *

Lessons began, and were soon marching on as if life had never been another way. It was strange not to have Mr Kendall as form master. Mr Higgins, the Greek master, was in charge of the upper third. The boys called him Draco because he had so many rules. Bodie loathed him, because his Greek was woefully bad, and Mr Higgins had humiliated him numerous times in front of his classmates. He felt no desire to do better, only a sullen certainty that he couldn’t get any worse.

English was different. Bodie liked it, and was good at it. He’d liked Father Walters, despite his strictness. Father Walters liked anyone who clicked at his subject. Quinn, on the other hand, resented every moment he spent in English lessons, and played up at every opportunity. He and Father Walters had been mortal enemies. Father Thompson, the new teacher, was patient and kind, and Quinn took to him much more easily. He also had the ability, which Father Walters lacked, of making learning fun. Being in his class was more like having your dad read you a bedtime story and explain the bits you didn’t understand. Like Father Repton with his first-formers, Father Thompson took a paternal attitude to his pupils.

They were learning about Chaucer that term, and Father Thompson was teaching the boys to translate passages from middle English into modern English. It was a task that Bodie might have found extremely laborious, because languages were not his strong point. However, Father Thompson explained the _Canterbury Tales_ in a way that made it fun, and he gave them passages to translate that appealed to the crude, silly sense of humour that most of the boys shared. Bodie persevered, and improved like he never had under Mr Higgins’ tutelage. He even fancied that the way it made him think was helping him with his other languages, if only a little. 

Adams, who’d come joint top with Bodie in English at the end of last year, felt differently. He struggled with Chaucer, and Father Thompson often kept him back after the Tuesday afternoon lesson, for some extra coaching. Maybe he found it humiliating, but whether for that or another reason, Adams seemed to detest Father Thompson. But then, Adams didn’t seem his usual self at all that term. He could still be cheerful and jokey, but he was just as often tense and irritable. Bodie frequently heard him wake in the night, as if from bad dreams. He even thought he heard him crying once. He wondered if everything was alright at home, but he didn’t dare ask. They were good friends, but they had never talked in any depth.

One Friday after school, Adams asked Bodie if he wanted to go out for a quick ride on their bikes, so they changed out of their uniforms and walked down to the bike sheds. With a conspiratorial grin in Bodie’s direction, Adams peeked behind the sheds.

‘No one there today,’ he said. With another grin, he added: ‘Hey — fancy a quick one?’ He made a gesture with his right hand so Bodie wasn’t in any doubt of what he was talking about.

Bodie hesitated for a second. He wasn’t sure it would be right — Adams was his friend, and it would just be an innocent wank to him, whereas for Bodie it was different. He’d started to look at his classmates in a new way since that strange, confusing Friday at the beginning of term. He certainly hadn’t failed to notice that Adams was one of the handsomest boys in the upper third. His hair curled a little on the ends, the way Haley’s did when it was wet, except Adams’ hair did that all the time, and Bodie found himself wanting to touch it. And he found the way the corners of Adams’ mouth turned up very slowly, just before he smiled properly, very appealing.

‘Oh, come on, where’s the harm?’ Adams asked, tapping his foot. He tugged Bodie’s sleeve. ‘Come on.’

‘All right, all right,’ Bodie grumbled, but he couldn’t stop himself returning Adams’ smile. They ducked behind the sheds, leaned against the wall, and undid their trousers. Bodie tried not to look down at Adams, but he couldn’t resist a glance. Seeing his friend stroking himself made him grow harder.

‘I’ll race you,’ Adams said. He bit his lip and moaned a little as his hand moved faster. With that, and the memory of Haley and Draper in the showers to occupy his mind, Bodie knew this was one race he would probably win. He stifled a moan himself a few seconds later. Then he became aware that Adams was looking at him. Maybe it was all right to look, then. He turned his head, met his friend’s eyes.

‘Hey,’ Adams whispered. ‘It feels good if you do it like this.’

Before Bodie could answer, he’d reached over and taken Bodie firmly in hand, doing something a little different from what Bodie normally did. Bodie gasped, as much in pleasure as surprise.

‘Corin!’

‘D’you mind?’ Adams’ eyes were searching, and he was breathless as he spoke. ‘Fuck, I can tell you don’t. I can tell. Will you let me? I’d let you ... you know. If you want.’

‘Have you done this before?’

‘Few times. Group of us ... never with just one other boy, though.’

‘Is it better this way?’ Bodie asked.

‘Touch me and I’ll tell you.’

Aroused by the directness of the request, Bodie obliged. He felt a rush of pleasure and satisfaction at the way Adams gasped and sighed when he touched him. It wasn’t the intimacy that Haley and Draper had, but it was better than doing it alone, and maybe it wasn’t love, but it wasn’t some crude, cheap thing; this was his best friend — he cared for him; he liked making him feel good, and Adams’ hand on him felt so much better than his own. After they’d both come, Adams buried his face in Bodie’s shoulder and breathed hard, and after a few seconds, feeling very bold, Bodie touched his hair, letting the ends curl around his fingers. When Adams didn’t complain or draw back, Bodie began to massage the back of his neck, very gently. He felt his friend relax, and a strange tenderness stirred inside him.

‘Can we do this again sometime?’ Adams asked at length.

‘Yes.’

‘D’you want to go cycling now?’

‘Yes.’

But before Bodie could move, Adams touched his arm. His eyes searched him again.

‘Did you like it?’

Bodie nodded.

‘Have you ever done that before?’

Bodie shook his head. Adams paused, bit his lip again as if nervous, then answered the question that Bodie had asked before, but wouldn’t have dared to ask again.

‘I like it better just with you.’

Bodie smiled. Adams smiled back, complete with that slow curving of his lips, and Bodie could have kissed him, but he thought that might be going a bit far.

‘Let’s go, then.’

* * * * *

It wasn’t a regular occurrence. But the experiment with Adams was repeated now and again: sometimes just the two of them, and sometimes in a larger group. Bodie found to his surprise that he enjoying doing it like that. The sight, the sounds, even the smell thrilled him, spurred him on. But he preferred the intimacy when they were alone. He still hadn’t dared to risk a kiss, but Adams, always inclined to be physically affectionate with friends, was endearingly so after the act, hugging Bodie or leaning against him. Afraid to seem too queer, Bodie always let him take the lead, but he always, and eagerly, encouraged him, reciprocating anything he offered. Whenever he suggested meeting up, Bodie said yes. When he let his hands wander, Bodie copied his caresses. When, once, he took them both in hand, Bodie reached out in turn, entwined their fingers, and murmured his approval.

As the months passed, they grew even further away from Quinn, and closer to each other. Quinn was less interested in them these days anyway: he had befriended the new boys in their form, twins, who were as mischievous as he was and cared just as little for their school marks. Bodie hoped that the new intimacy might make Adams confide whatever seemed to be troubling him, without having to be asked what the matter was. Bodie sensed the same vulnerability as before, perhaps even more so, but he also felt that he might be making a difference. If they’d been together on a given afternoon, Adams’ sleep that night seemed untroubled by nightmares.

Bodie might have confided some of this to Draper, except that he thought the older boy wouldn’t approve. _‘Don’t be queer if you can help it,’_ he’d said. He might not have been bothered by the thought of some mutual touching — most of the boys indulged in that every so often — but the things Bodie wanted to tell Draper sounded as queer as could be. Most boys, he surmised, didn’t feel the urge to lock lips with their partners in sin, or to climb into their beds and comfort them when they had bad dreams. Bodie, therefore, worried in silence.

Half term came and went. Bodie’s dad, Mrs Campbell, and James, all turned up when the other boys’ families did. Bodie supposed they’d had a letter home about the open day this time, since he’d never mentioned it. He didn’t want to give the impression of needing them.

James had said his first proper words just before Bodie went back to school, but he wasn’t prepared for his baby brother to point at him and say ‘Will’ when he came to meet them on the school drive. Bodie didn’t even bother to hide how pleased he was when his stepmother handed James to him for a hug and a kiss. Maybe it was guilt over the less-than-amicable parting they’d had back in September, but they were nice to him all day, and by the end of it, Bodie was feeling quite magnanimous.

‘Bye, Dad. Bye, Jamie.’

He shook his dad’s hand, kissed his brother’s forehead, then, after a moment’s hesitation, decided to do the decent thing. He kissed his stepmother on the cheek.

‘Bye, Lydia.’

She looked pleasantly surprised. He’d stopped calling her Mrs Campbell some time ago, because his dad had said it hurt her feelings and threatened to strap him if he did it again. But he hadn’t used her name before. He’d called her ‘stepmother’ if he _had_ to address her, because he’d seen that in _Cinderella_ and reckoned that it would communicate what he thought of her. But he usually called her nothing at all, and spoke to her as little as possible.

‘Goodbye, Will,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Good luck with the rest of the term. Keep writing, won’t you — we do so enjoy your letters.’

Bodie could have reminded her that the boys were all forced to write a letter home every week, but he didn’t. He smiled and waved goodbye, and found that when they’d driven away, and he was walking in to supper, he was still smiling.

* * * * *

‘Oi, Bodie! Fancy a game of squash this afternoon?’ Draper asked, as they ran into each other in the long ground-floor corridor, during one Friday lunch break in February.

‘Rather! It’s bl —’ he caught himself before he swore; Mr Kendall was passing ‘— very cold today! Aren’t you playing, Hal?’

‘I’m being kept in,’ Haley said gloomily. ‘I failed our latest English test, and Father Thompson wants me to make it up.’

‘Failed? You?’

‘That’s what I said,’ Draper told Bodie. ‘We compared answers afterwards, and we had most of the same ones. It was a hard test, mind. I didn’t do as well as I normally do.’

‘Yeah, you only got ninety percent instead of a hundred,’ Haley broke in, giving Draper an affectionate shove. ‘And I don’t think I got _most_ of the same answers as you. Anyway, in English it’s often the quality of your answers that’s assessed; they’re not just correct or incorrect.’

‘Still, I think he’s being unfair,’ said Draper.

‘He’s being fair enough, letting me retake it. Father Walters wouldn’t have done that.’

‘I suppose not,’ conceded Draper. ‘Anyway, Bodie, what do you say?’

‘Yes,’ said Bodie. ‘Although, obviously, I won’t be as much fun.’ He grinned.

‘You just see that you aren’t!’ Haley replied, grinning back.

‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ Draper said loyally.

‘I know.’ Haley ruffled his hair.

There was a hint of snow in the air that day, and the heating in the music classroom was on the blink during the afternoon’s double lesson. Father May, the music master, gave up trying to make the third-formers concentrate on comparing Mozart and Beethoven, and instead taught them the Cold Song from Purcell’s _King Arthur,_ accompanying them on the piano, and encouraging them to sound as shivery as possible. Bodie enjoyed himself, but he was very glad to reach the squash court changing room that afternoon. Draper was there already, writing in his journal, basking in the heat, with Haley’s squash racket for Bodie to borrow since he didn’t have one of his own.

‘I suppose you get more practice at this than I do,’ Bodie said, after Draper had beaten him for the second time. ‘Although if it was me, I wouldn’t bother playing squash at all.’ He winked.

‘You can’t be too careful,’ Draper replied, glancing sideways at him with a hint of sternness that was soon replaced with curiosity. ‘And what’s this? Do I detect the voice of experience here?’

‘May-be,’ Bodie teased.

‘You didn’t take my advice, then.’ Draper frowned.

‘Oh, come off it, Jon. I’m not doing anything heavy. Everyone has a bit of fun now and again.’

‘I s’pose that’s all Hal and I were doing when we were twelve,’ admitted Draper.

‘I’m nearly thirteen now,’ said Bodie, proudly. It was two and a half months till his birthday.

‘I know. We've got a present planned for you.’

‘Really? Thanks!’

Draper returned his smile. He hooked an arm around Bodie’s neck and pressed their heads briefly together. Then he tossed the squash ball into the air and whacked it hard into the wall. Bodie had to dive to hit it when it came ricocheting back at him. He ended up flat on the floor and in fits of giggles. Draper, laughing too, dragged him to his feet.

‘Go on, Rover, get the ball.’

_‘Me?’_

The door upstairs banged, putting a halt to the argument. Draper looked up and grinned.

_‘There_ he is! I was hoping you’d make it down.’

Bodie looked up and saw Haley running across the gallery, and grinned at Draper.

‘You two really can’t be apart for a minute, can you?’

Draper didn’t answer. He was frowning as he listened to the footsteps pounding down the stairs. Seconds later, Haley burst onto the court. He didn’t even seem to register Bodie’s presence.

‘Jon,’ he gasped, catching Draper by the shoulders.

‘What is it?’ Draper looked frightened. He touched Haley’s face, thumbing away tears on his cheeks. ‘Hal?’

‘F-father Thompson.’

Draper’s expression darkened. His voice, when he spoke, was low and dangerous.

‘What’s he done?’ 

Haley looked at him for a moment. More tears slipped down his cheeks. Then, as if he couldn’t stand the space between them any longer, he flung himself into Draper’s arms and started sobbing. Bodie saw Draper’s face before he buried it in Haley’s hair, and it was stark white; he was trembling, and the expression in his eyes made Bodie’s blood run cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Purcell's _Cold Song_ , if anyone doesn't know it and is curious: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hGpjsgquqw


	9. Chapter 9

Draper let Haley cry himself out. He didn’t say a word, didn’t tell him to pull himself together, didn’t even try and and tell him that everything was going to be alright. When Haley had calmed down, and his breathing came normally again, Draper pulled back a little and began kissing away the tears on his cheeks. He kissed his jaw, his neck, his forehead, his temples, and Haley closed his grief-swollen eyes, long black lashes sweeping the reddened skin underneath, mouth slightly open, fists clutching at the sleeves of Draper’s sports shirt, knuckles white, breaths shaking. Bodie couldn’t stop himself being struck by Haley’s beauty, despite the circumstances.

It was when Draper tried to kiss his lips that the spell was broken. Haley made a tiny noise of protest in the back of his throat, and pulled back.

‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘Got to wash my mouth out three times first. He ...’

He caught sight of Bodie.

‘Bodie ...’ he stepped back from Draper and straightened his blazer, shifting his feet awkwardly. ‘Sorry you had to see all that. I forgot you were there.’

‘No, I’m sorry I stayed.’ Bodie’s face was hot as he spoke. Yet again, he’d managed to intrude on what should have been a private moment — except this time it definitely wasn’t his fault. ‘I shouldn’t’ve ... I’ll leave you two alone.’

‘No.’ Draper called him back. ‘Stay. Sorry, Hal, but Bodie should hear this. You should have another witness.’

‘You make it sound like I’m making a statement.’ Haley looked bemused.

‘That’s _exactly_ what you should do.’ Draper, the policeman’s son with ambitions to be a barrister, looked eager. ‘You should make a statement and sign it. We’ll sign it as witnesses. We’ll take it straight to Father Walters.’

‘We can’t!’ Haley looked stricken. ‘He said ... he said if I said anything, he’d write to our fathers about us. He _knows_ about us, Jon. And he said no one would believe us anyway. No one ever ... Jon!’

‘Jon, what are you ...’ Bodie dodged as Draper came at him. Haley caught his arms, held him fast. He must have been stronger than he looked.

‘He must have told!’ Draper snarled, as he struggled in Haley’s grip.

‘I didn’t! I didn’t!’ Bodie backed away in the direction of the door, hands out in front of him, ready to run. Perhaps Haley would manage to hold Draper back long enough for him to get away.

‘He wouldn’t, Jonny,’ Haley said gently. ‘He swore. You said so. You believed him. And anyway, Thompson said ...’

‘Then _how_ does Thompson know about us?’

Haley gave a weak smile. ‘If you give me a chance, I’ll tell you.’

Draper relaxed, and Haley let him go. But he still glowered at Bodie, and Bodie kept well out of his reach.

‘He said he saw us,' Haley explained.

‘Here?’ Draper looked shocked.

‘Not here. Coming out of the boiler room.’

Draper frowned. ‘But we never ...’

‘I know. But he doesn’t. He’s guessed about us; that’s for sure. He’s heard where the boys go for sex, and assumed we do too. Thought he could put one over on me.’

‘Then what are you worried about? He knows nothing — he’s lying!’

‘Do you think my father will care? Do you think he’ll believe my word over a teacher’s? If Father Thompson writes to our fathers we’re finished, Jon. Yours might write it off as a public school phase, but mine — he _warned_ me about what goes on between boarders. He said ... well, you know what he said.’

‘This is rubbish,’ said Draper. ‘We’ll go to Walt and tell him everything. He’ll tell your dad Thompson was lying!’

‘If he believes us. Can we take that risk?’

Draper bit his lip. His frown deepened, and his eyes took on a resolved expression, as if he had made an important decision. He gave a sharp, brisk nod.

‘Alright. I take your point. But I still want you to talk. And unless you really object, I want Bodie to hear it.’

Haley looked at Bodie.

‘No, you’re right. Bodie should hear it.’

Draper sat on the floor, tugging at Haley’s cuff. When he dropped down beside him, Draper put his arms around his waist and pulled him close, kissing his hair.

Bodie sat opposite them, a few feet away. His mind was reeling. Haley obviously assumed they both knew, vaguely, what had happened. Bodie knew what Draper must be thinking. He had jumped to the same conclusion. But his mind wasn’t on Haley’s predicament; he was thinking about someone dearer to him, someone who’d also been kept in for extra lessons with Father Thompson, someone who hated the English master for no apparent reason, who’d been having nightmares and crying quietly in bed, who’d reached out to Bodie in a way he never had before this term ...

_Whatever he’s done to Hal, he’s done it to Corin, too._

‘Alright,’ said Haley. He nodded, staring at the lines on the court, as if he were steeling himself. He met neither Draper’s eyes, nor Bodie’s. He only seemed to register Draper’s physical attentions enough to pull away from him. He sat separately, elegantly, legs folded out to the side, while Draper watched him, simmering with emotions still unexpressed, but as clear to Bodie as if he’d spoken them aloud. When Haley began to talk, he sounded detached. His voice was faint, almost dreamy.

‘He put the test in front of me, and I expected it to be different, but it was the same. He said I might perform better without the distraction of other boys. “Especially young Master Draper,” he said. “Your eyes are rarely off _him.”_

‘I asked if he was accusing me of cheating. I couldn’t believe it. No one had ever thought such a thing of me. I said that if I’d been cheating, wouldn’t Jon and I have got the same marks? He said: “You’re not a cheat, Haley. But you are a queer.” 

‘I was so shocked, I couldn’t talk; I just sat there, _staring_ at him, like an idiot. Finally I asked him what he was talking about. He said: “I’m not blind, Haley. I’ve seen the two of you. You and Draper. I’ve seen lots of you boys. You think you’re all so clever, so devious, hiding out in the attics, in the boiler room, but I’m not so stupid, even if the other teachers are. I’ve worked in a lot of schools. I know what boys are. And I also know when it’s not just a schoolboy phase. So what would your father have to say about that?”

‘I panicked — couldn’t help it. I pleaded with him. Told him my father would kill me. Told him it wasn’t true. He called me a liar. He repeated that he’d seen us. I knew he couldn’t have, because we’ve never been in the usual haunts. But I didn’t trust myself to argue, so I didn’t say anything. Glad I didn’t, now. It might’ve made things worse. But he obviously thought he had me. He said he wouldn’t say anything about me if I didn’t say anything about this.

‘I was wondering what he meant when he got out his ... you know. “You’ll like this, Hal. That’s what they call you, isn’t it? Hal? Bet your friend’s not as big as this. You like a nice big cock, don’t you?” ’

Haley’s voice was eerily like Father Thompson’s as he repeated the words: the English teacher’s husky, long-term smoker’s voice, and the slight, drawling hint of an indeterminate accent: some Southern country burr long suppressed. Haley looked miles away, as if he barely realised where he was, let alone that he was impersonating the man who’d abused him, that he remembered, word for word, the awful things that had been said to him. He didn’t seem to hear Draper’s short, violent exclamation, or see the way he clutched at his hair, like he needed to hold _something,_ but didn’t dare to touch the boy he loved.

‘I tried to get away. My foot caught on the chair leg. I stumbled. He grabbed my head. Forced me onto my knees. Forced it into my mouth. Said if he felt teeth I’d regret it. I believed him, so I didn’t. Nearly choked me ... right down my throat ... didn’t take long ... God, the noise he made ... how he tasted ... I wanted to be sick ... _was_ sick, afterwards. Soon as he let me go I ran. I threw up in the bushes when I got outside. Didn’t dare go near the lavatories in case he followed me in. Haley’s voice broke. He looked up at Draper, and his eyes brimmed with fresh tears. Draper was shaking visibly. His eyes looked like black holes in his face, which was white again with fury. His lips were a thin, pale line. Haley watched him, and grew obviously afraid. He reached out with one hand, briefly touched Draper’s chest, but pulled back a second later.

‘Oh, Jon ... he kept telling me how much I wanted it ... _loved_ it, he said I loved it. Next time he’d ... fuck me, he said ...’

Bodie knew the reason for the expression on Draper’s face, but Haley, in his distressed state, misread it. His lower lip trembled; he bit down on it so hard that it bled. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat: a cross between a sob and a whimper, quickly stifled as he gazed at Draper, large-eyed and silently pleading.

‘You do believe me, don’t you? I didn’t want it; I _don’t,_ he made me; I’d never let anyone ... anyone except you ... you’re the only one ...’

‘For God’s sake!’ Draper snapped out of it, seized Haley by his upper arms and shook him. ‘Do you think that I’d ever believe you wanted ... _that?_ Don’t you _ever_ feel guilty for what he did. Do you hear me?’ He shook Haley again. ‘Hal?’

‘Yes,’ Haley said weakly.

‘Fuck. Come on. Kiss me.’

Haley pressed his lips together and shook his head. ‘No.’

 _‘Kiss_ me! I’ll prove I don’t care what he put in your mouth.’ Draper touched his cheek. ‘He can’t hurt us. He’ll never hurt you again.’

Haley looked disbelieving, and opened his mouth to answer, but something in Draper’s face made him hesitate. He closed his eyes and leaned forward. Draper met him with a kiss, passionate and open-mouthed. Haley practically melted into his arms. Bodie saw the unshed tears escaping from under his closed eyelids. When Draper let him go, and he opened his eyes, they held a look of incredulous relief. He leaned close again, whispered something in his ear. Bodie just made out Draper’s reply: ‘You too.’ His voice was tender enough to bring a lump to Bodie’s throat, but the expression on his face was still frightening in its rage.

Draper didn’t hold Haley for long that time. He squeezed him very tightly, baring his teeth, breathing hard. Then, without warning, he sprung to his feet.

‘Alright. Come on, both of you. I want witnesses.’

‘What for?’ Haley sounded as startled as he looked. ‘Jon?’

Draper hauled him to his feet, then reached a hand down to Bodie, who also let himself be pulled up. He exchanged an uneasy glance with Haley as Draper strode off the court, shooting a quick glance behind him to make sure they were following. Haley looked worried enough not to let Draper out of his sight, and Bodie wouldn’t have dared not to obey. Not with the mood Draper was in, not having experienced first-hand what he was capable of when his anger was aroused. Not with Haley as vulnerable as he was.

Bodie felt the chill acutely when they stepped outside, even though Draper had made them stop at the changing room to put their uniforms back on, and so that he could take something from his bag: something small, that he concealed in his hand before slipping it into his pocket. Bodie couldn’t see what it was, but Haley gave a worried frown, as if he knew, and didn’t like it. 

They all looked as smart as could be when they left the changing room. No teacher watching them would have had any cause for complaint — if he didn’t look too closely at Draper’s face.

Bodie and Haley had to march at a hard pace to keep up with Draper. Bodie watched the back of his head, and actually felt glad that he couldn’t see his eyes. Haley made no attempt to fall into step with him. His fists were tightly clenched as he walked up to the school. Draper was wiggling his fingers, flexing his wrists. His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid and upright. He didn’t slow down, stop, or look back, until he was at Father Thompson’s study door. Then he glanced sideways at his friends. Bodie wondered how they must look: two pale faces, two pairs of big blue eyes, probably as frightened as each other. It was impossible to tell what Draper saw, or how he felt. His eyes were cold and expressionless as he knocked at the door.

‘Come in.’

Draper slipped his right hand into his pocket, and turned the handle with his left.

‘Draper!’ Father Thompson was sitting at his desk behind a pile of exercise books. He stood up, looking pleasantly surprised. ‘What brings ...’

It might have been the sight of Bodie and Haley, entering the study behind Draper. It might have been the expression on Draper’s face, which Bodie could imagine even if he couldn’t see it. But it was most likely the cutthroat razor in Draper’s hand that made Thompson’s face fall. Draper put his left index finger to his lips.

‘Close the door, please, Bodie,’ he murmured. Bodie obeyed.

‘Now, Father. I think we have plenty to talk about, don’t you?’

‘I’ve nothing to say to you,’ said Thompson. ‘I don’t take kindly to being threatened.’

‘Oh, well, I’ll stop then,’ said Draper. He re-folded the razor and put up his hands, turned towards the door, the sarcastic, tight-lipped smile fading from his lips ... whirled back around, started forward, and the blade flashed in the lamplight as he slid across the surface of the desk, sending books and papers flying, and grabbed Thompson by the throat, slamming him up against a nearby filing cabinet. Bodie could see both their faces now: one with eyes suddenly wild with fear, the other with a look akin to madness. He flinched at Thompson’s sharp intake of breath as Draper’s right hand, holding the razor, moved down between his legs.

‘Feel like talking yet?’

‘What do you want me to say?’ Thompson croaked. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You understand perfectly well. Or did you think Haley wouldn’t come to me? You bastard. You know, the joke is, we’re taught to respect our teachers no matter what. And what’s that s’posed to mean? That we should carry on respecting them when they stick their cocks down our throats? I wouldn’t try and deny it, if I were you’ — Thompson had opened his mouth as if to speak — ‘I’ve known Haley longer than you have, and if he ever _did_ try and lie to me about something, I’d know. Thing is, though, Haley’s a decent human being, and he wouldn’t make up even so much as a white lie about anybody. He told me’ — Draper’s voice was soft, sing-song, mocking — _‘everything,_ Father.’

Thompson’s eyes shifted towards Haley, who shrank backwards. Draper took his hand from Thompson’s throat and slapped his face.

 _‘Don’t_ look at him.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Thompson asked. ‘If you carry out what you’re threatening with that razor of yours, you won’t get away with it. You’ll go to prison for an awfully long time. Are you going to throw your life away, Draper? For a youthful dalliance?’

‘Dalliance ... _dalliance?’_ Draper grabbed his collar. ‘Is _that_ what you think this is about? You terrorise my best friend, you force him to give you a blow job, and you think that if I'm angry, it has to be about _sex?_ D’you think I see you as a _rival,_ you sick bastard? No, don’t bother to answer; I don’t want to hear it. All I want from you is one nod. One guarantee that you’ll never touch the boys at this school again. And _I_ won’t go to Father Walters, with a signed statement from my friend here, explaining everything.’

‘You think you’d be believed?’

‘Father Walters trusts me.’

‘Enough to take your word over a master’s?’

‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ said Draper. ‘That’s why I’ve got _this,_ you see.’

Thompson tried, unsuccessfully, to flinch away as Draper pushed the razor harder against him.

‘If you touch him again,’ he continued, ‘there’ll be nowhere you can go where I won’t find you. I’ll be on you before you know what’s hit you — old man.’ He smiled, so nasty, so threatening a smile that he barely looked like himself. ‘I’ll tie you up nice and tight so you can’t struggle. I might break some bones. Not all of them, just the ones that hurt most. Maybe an elbow, or a kneecap. Then I’ll get out these old scissors of mine.’ He barked a laugh. ‘They’re so fucking blunt, they barely even cut paper. Might take ages to cut your balls off, but I’m patient. I can wait. At least I can look forward to how they’ll feel when I squash them underfoot. Then will come the best part ... I’ll do what you did to Hal, but I’ll choke you to death on it. See how much of a man you are when you get a taste of your own medicine.’

Thompson bared his teeth. ‘I’d bite off anything you put in my mouth, you little bastard.’

‘Then I’ll rip all your teeth out with pliers first. You won’t be able to bite anything.’

The smug look went out of Thompson’s eyes.

‘You’re serious.’

‘You’re damn fucking right I’m serious. Look into my eyes, Thompson. Do you doubt me?’

Thompson shook his head. Bodie saw his Adam’s apple bob furiously as he swallowed.

‘And there’s nothing you can say, to either Hal’s father or mine. You’ve no evidence against us, Thompson. Because there is none. We’ve never been up to the attics, or the boiler room, and you know it. We’re not like that. You won’t incriminate us on lies.’

‘I don’t intend to,’ Thompson answered. His breath was noisy, wet, sticking in his throat.

‘Are you sure?’ Draper pressed the blade harder against his crotch. The priest’s answering ‘Yes!’ was almost a whimper.

‘Very well. I believe you.’

When he stepped back this time, it was for real. He spoke once more, asking if they were agreed, and Thompson nodded fervently. Draper smiled, and, once again, he put up his hands. He sheathed the blade; he backed away, until he stood with the hard oak of the door at his back, Bodie and Haley either side of him.

‘We’ll see you in lessons, sir,’ he murmured. After one last, hard look at Thompson, Draper opened the door and stalked out. Bodie and Haley followed. The study door clicked quietly shut behind them. And Draper’s attitude changed instantly: his eyes were wide and frightened; he swayed, his shoulders slumped, and his head drooped.

‘Jonny,’ Haley whispered, but Draper didn’t answer him. He started walking, and didn’t stop until he reached the boys’ lavatories on the first floor. He pushed the door open with his shoulder. It was pitch dark inside: no one used those facilities after lessons were over for the day. Bodie heard Draper's hand tap and slide against the wall, feeling for the light switch. After a few seconds, there was a click, and the light came on. As Bodie and Haley stepped into the cold, tiled room, with its painfully bright lights, Draper disappeared into one of the cubicles. There was a moment’s silence; then they heard him vomiting.

‘Oh, Jon,’ Haley sighed, not loudly enough for Draper to hear. He looked exhausted, his breaths shook, and Bodie could see the strain around his eyes. He wondered for a moment whether Haley would shed more tears, but he didn’t. He clenched his fists at his sides and waited. Bodie, feeling he ought to stay until he knew they’d both be all right, waited with him.

Draper emerged from the cubicle, looking distinctly green. He stumbled to the nearest sink and turned on the tap, washing his hands and face, and rinsing out his mouth. He met his own eyes in the mirror and shuddered. Haley approached him slowly, placed a tentative hand on his shoulder.

‘It’s alright, Jon.’

Draper turned, his arms up and reaching out before he was halfway facing Haley. He grabbed hold of him, pulled him forward, hugged him tight with his eyes squeezed shut and his whole body quivering with stress. Haley made a faint sound of surprise at the force and suddenness of the embrace, then exhaled: a long, sighing breath of apparent relief. He wrapped one arm around Draper’s torso, and lifted his other hand up to the back of his head. He stroked Draper’s hair, massaged his scalp; gently but firmly he tried to ease the tension.

‘Sssh,’ he whispered. ‘Relax, beloved. Relax.’

He retained what, to Bodie, seemed an admirable level of calm, holding Draper close without strangling him, soothing without patronising, murmuring vows and endearments that would normally have sounded ridiculous in Bodie’s ears, but now seemed quite natural and appropriate. Draper was as certain of Haley’s feelings for him as he was sure the world was round, but in such a state, having done what he had, for the reason he had, he needed to hear how deeply, how unconditionally his love was returned, and that it would last forever.

Still worried, deeply touched, but unwilling to intrude upon them yet again, Bodie stole quietly away.


	10. Chapter 10

‘I don’t believe in God,’ Draper said, stretching his arms above his head, ‘but sometimes it’s like nature _knows_ what’s going on. Like it’s a mirror of us.’

‘ “I love not man the less ...” ’ Bodie quoted. Draper turned to him with a grin of recognition. 

It was a Thursday afternoon, and they were lying on the croquet lawn with their sleeves rolled up, enjoying some unseasonably warm weather. Since the confrontation with Father Thompson, the sun had, literally and figuratively, come out. When Bodie had asked Draper how Haley had felt during their English lessons, Draper had replied: ‘Nervous at first, so was I, but Thompson just behaved as if nothing had ever happened, so ...’ A flicker of anger crossed his face; then he took a deep breath, and shrugged. ‘So did we. It’ll be alright.’

There was another piece of good news, although Bodie couldn’t share it with his older friends. Corin Adams had stopped having nightmares. He knew it was no coincidence. On the Tuesday afternoon following the confrontation, Adams had come to Bodie, positively buoyant. For the first time in months, he wasn’t being kept in. What was more, Thompson apparently no longer felt he needed extra coaching. Adams dragged Bodie off for a ride down to the village, enthusing about a new brand of chocolates the sweet shop had started stocking. He was in a demonstrative mood, and Bodie half expected him to suggest a detour behind the bike sheds. But no such suggestion occurred.

Bodie knew _that_ was no coincidence either. But he clamped down on his disappointment, content with the arm slung around his shoulders, happy that his best friend was his normal, cheerful. self again. As was Haley, strolling onto the lawn with mallet and ball as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He wasn’t quite the same, now: less confident, less relaxed, more in Draper’s shadow, than he had been. But as the weeks passed, he was gradually coming back out of his shell. He smiled at Bodie and Draper, and joined them on the grass.

‘Everything in order?’ Draper asked.

‘All present and correct,’ said Haley. It was his week to be the lower fifth’s form room monitor, and for once, Draper seemed to be able to stand half an hour a day out of his company.

‘Although my lovely one I’ll sadly miss, to shun dullness I’ll sacrifice a kiss,’ he’d said to Bodie, complete with flamboyant hand gestures and tragic expression.

‘Tell me you didn’t just make that up.’

Draper had shrugged arrogantly. ‘Just.’

‘Show-off.’

Haley’s arrival heralded the start of another game, which Bodie won. After that, the light got too bad to play, and it began to get chilly. The boys decided to await the supper bell in their respective common rooms, and walked back to school.

* * * * *

Easter arrived almost before they knew it. The rest of the term had been smooth and uneventful. At the end of it, Bodie wasn’t top in anything, but his dad and Lydia didn’t seem to mind. He felt, with some bitterness, that they were far more interested in James. Being at boarding school didn’t always mean that one grew away from one’s family, but it certainly seemed to in Bodie’s case. He barely felt connected to his dad any more. Nor did he feel the need to cycle to his old neighbourhood, as he had done every other holiday. He watched television, read books, and, for the first time in his life, wrote letters willingly, to Adams, and to Draper. Both of them wrote back to him. Bodie received Draper’s reply first.

_Dear Bodie,_

_I am on a train as I write this. I even have a compartment all to myself. Hopefully no one will come and spoil it for me. Except the person I want to be here. We’re meeting in Nottingham, which is about halfway between where we each live. Then we’re going camping for the weekend. I keep not believing our fathers would let us, but then I remember they have no idea we’re not just good friends. I keep feeling terrified I’ll say something, but of course I don’t. I can hardly wait. We’re very careful at school now, as you know, so this will be the first time we’ve touched properly in nearly three months. It is agony, being so close to the one you love, and yet so far. I hope you never have to go through that. I hope you’re having a nice holiday and enjoying being with your family. When I get back home my dad is taking Mum and I to Blackpool for a week, so hopefully the weather will be nice. He offered to take Hal, but Hal’s father said no. The whole thing sounded a bit common for him, I think. My dad wasn’t half mad, but at least he didn’t blame Hal._

_See you back at school,_  
 _Jon._

Adams’ letter was of a different type altogether. Reading it lowered Bodie’s spirits even further than they had been before. 

_Dear Will,_

_How are you? I hope you’re having a good holiday. Your letter was fun, but you sounded bored all the same. For me, chance would be a fine thing, it’s all very busy here. That’s mainly what I wanted to write to you about. We’re moving house, and I’m also moving schools. The reasons are too complicated to explain. Mother offered to let me stay on for the rest of the year, but I wanted to go straightaway._

_Can you tell all the lads goodbye from me? And will you keep in touch? I’ll write to you in a few days with my new address. Mother says you can come and stay once we’re settled. She’s always liked you._

_Corin._

Bodie could sense the sadness in the letter. He gritted his teeth against a wave of emotion as it dawned on him how blind he’d been. To think that Adams could get over what had happened to him, practically overnight? It had been a nice thing to believe, but Bodie felt stupid, naive, and a useless friend for doing so. Adams had been euphoric that Thompson wasn’t keeping him in anymore, and perhaps that had stopped him having bad dreams, but he obviously couldn’t face the thought of coming back to school. He hadn’t even been able to wait for the end of the year.

 _I’ve failed him,_ Bodie thought. It didn’t matter that Adams had never confided in him, that everything he thought he knew was guesswork. _If Hal hadn’t come straight to Jonny, he’d’ve bludgeoned him into saying what was wrong anyway. Specially if he was having nightmares. If only I could’ve done that for Corin ... if only I’d dared ... if only he’d’ve let me ..._

______He sat down over and over again to write a reply, but the words wouldn’t come. The only ones he could think of, he knew he couldn’t say: perhaps because, for the first time, he admitted to himself what they were. He put the letter off over and over again, until it slipped his mind altogether. For the rest of the holidays he was aware of a slight uneasiness, as if he’d forgotten something, but it was always gone too quickly for him to catch hold of._ _ _ _ _ _

______He was packing up to go back to school when he realised that he’d never replied, and Adams had not written again. When Lydia came to check on his progress, she found him bent over his trunk, weeping. He wouldn’t tell her why._ _ _ _ _ _

________ _ _ _ _

* * * * *

‘I do love modern machinery,’ said Draper, leaning back in his seat in the train compartment he was sharing with Haley and Bodie, after having pulled the curtain halfway across the window. ‘Bodie, could you sit by the door? Let us know if anyone’s walking past?’ He turned back to Haley. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. I could’ve bribed your butler to cut some wire or other, any number of times.’

Haley laughed. ‘Or I could just have asked. Father said if I’d wanted to travel by train, I only needed to say. He says’ — he deepened his voice — ‘ “The sooner a boy takes steps towards independence, the sooner he’ll be a man.” ’

‘Well, if it takes his precious Rolls breaking down to open up such vital channels of communication between you, I’m not complaining,’ said Draper. He stretched, allowing his left arm to rest along the back of the seat, like a shy schoolboy at the cinema with a girl. Haley turned to look at him with one eyebrow raised. They grinned at each other.

‘You two are bloody unbearable,’ Bodie complained a few minutes later, glancing over his shoulder at them from his position as lookout. ‘Why am I always the one who has to watch you swapping saliva?’

‘Be fair,’ said Draper, with a look of mischief on his face that, temporarily, made him seem as handsome as Haley. ‘We don't make you watch us swap anything _else.’_

Bodie made a disgusted noise, and Haley punched Draper in the shoulder.

‘Oooh.’ Draper grimaced, and rubbed the sore spot. ‘Have you been practising?’

‘No,’ Haley said laughingly, settling himself against the shoulder he’d just assaulted. With a sigh, and a long-suffering expression that never reached his eyes, Draper hugged him sideways, watching as his amused smile morphed into a contented expression.

He ran the back of his hand down Haley’s cheek. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘I ...’ Then he blinked, glanced over at Bodie, reddened, and cleared his throat. ‘What about you, Bodie? You’re old enough to join the boxing club now. Or near as dammit. I bet Mr Kendall wouldn’t mind.’

‘Yeah, the rules say “the term in which you turn thirteen”, don’t they?’ Haley asked.

‘Mr Kendall’s rules, anyway,’ put in Draper, rolling his eyes. ‘My dad started when he was twelve. Never did him any harm.’

‘Yeah, I’ll join,’ said Bodie. ‘I didn’t know you two were in it.’

‘We’re not. Yet. It’s on Friday afternoons.’

‘Ah, squash day,’ Bodie said, nodding.

‘Which we’re giving up,’ said Haley. ‘Safety first, and all that.’

‘Hence me being posted on guard duty? Again?’

‘ ‘Fraid so.’

‘Well, watch out, or I’ll mutiny,’ Bodie answered, scowling. Two pairs of eyes met his: the blue ones placated, while the brown ones half-begged, half-threatened. Relenting, he smiled in a resigned sort of way, and turned back to the door.

He was feeling Adams’ absence keenly, and continued to feel it throughout the term. Being without him was almost like being a new boy again; he had to adjust to the dynamic of his class, find somewhere new to fit in. Quinn and his friends, John and Philip Davison, accepted him readily enough, but it wasn’t the same. Bodie missed Adams’ presence in the next bed, the brush of his elbow at mealtimes, the shared jokes, the friendly rivalry during lessons, the bike rides on Saturdays — and the other things, although they had stopped long ago. It was hard, losing his best friend. Especially when they could have kept in touch, and Bodie knew it was his fault that they hadn’t.

He enjoyed his English lessons almost as much as ever, especially since Father Thompson was showing no sign of having gone back on his word. He enjoyed letting off steam on Fridays at the boxing club, playing squash with John Davison when the court was free, talking cricket with Mark Kelly in the common room after supper, and catching up with Haley and Draper over games of croquet. He and Draper also went cycling together sometimes. Now that Adams was gone, Bodie had gone back to preferring Draper’s company over anyone else’s. They could talk more freely about their early childhoods: life before posh school. They could allow their accents to slip a little without someone pointing it out and mocking them. Draper talked to him about Haley, which the romantic in Bodie liked to hear: Draper’s adoration shone out of every syllable. And some of the things Draper confided served another purpose: they added to his stock of sexual knowledge, and fuel to his fantasies.

'I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you about it,' Draper said ruefully. 'I keep forgetting how young you are.’

‘You can talk to me! I’m not _that_ young.’

Bodie had turned thirteen. His dad and Lydia had given him a camera. It made him miss Adams, because his mother had let the boys play around with an old camera of hers when Bodie came to stay. He took pictures of the school grounds, and his classmates. Quinn snapped him and Mark Kelly in their cricket gear, after they’d won a match against the lower fourth. Bodie caught Haley and Draper with their arms around each other’s shoulders, looking at each other and laughing. It was the sort of shot that seemed innocent enough if you didn’t know the nature of their relationship, but if you did, it was obvious. Draper loved it, and asked for a copy. When Bodie gave it to him, he tucked it into his ever-present notebook.

‘What do you write in there?’ Bodie asked.

‘All sorts,’ Draper replied, with that ‘none of your business’ shrug of his that belied his amiable tone of voice. Bodie wondered if even Haley had seen the inside of that book. It was brown, leather-bound, with a long strand of leather that Draper wound around it to keep it shut. The only thing Bodie knew about it was that it was private: Draper had once nearly broken someone’s nose when he tried to get his hands on it. The longer Bodie knew him, the more he realised that you didn’t mess with him, no matter how trifling the circumstances appeared. No one did. There was a streak of danger in Jonathan Draper. He lived for Haley: didn’t just love him, was _obsessed_ with him. Everything he did was a means to an end, and that end was the two of them, together, having survived the perils of adolescence, the ever-present threat of discovery. Draper wove a protective cocoon around himself and the boy he loved. Bodie, because he was like them, had been allowed beneath its surface. But that didn’t mean he had unrestricted access.

* * * * *

The adjective more than one teacher used on Bodie’s end-of-year report was ‘spirited’. For the first time, the words ‘could try harder’ were also applied. While the games master was delighted with his progress, others were less happy with his work. Being friends with Quinn and the Davison twins meant jokes and fooling, not dedicated attention to one’s studies. Bodie allowed himself to be led by them, happy enough to let his school marks slip. Who was there to care how he did, after all? He was, at least, able to point to his improvement in languages. He was fourth in Latin, and, to his own pleasant surprise, in the top half of the class for Greek. Haley’s help was finally paying off. He had been giving Bodie translation exercises of his own devising. The fact that they were nearly all quotations about male lovers had done a lot for Bodie’s level of interest. He’d learnt things about Alexander the Great — Haley’s favourite — that neither Mr Higgins, nor Mr Kendall, would have told him in a million years.

What suffered most that term was his English result. It had been his best subject, but he was seventh in the class that term: the lowest he’d ever been. He wondered, briefly, whether Father Thompson was being unfairly hard on him, but he knew there was no use in complaining, even if he could prove it. He wanted no more to do with the English master than was absolutely necessary. So when Lydia asked him what had happened, he answered her with a sullen shrug, and she didn’t press him.

‘Just remember, you’ll have to work harder in the fourth form, Will,’ she told him. ‘You’ll have important exams in two years’ time, and you’ll need to be prepared for them.’

That was too far ahead for Bodie to think about. He mumbled something noncommittal and tried to concentrate on enjoying the summer holidays. For the first time in terms, he was actually relieved to get away from school, and didn’t particularly relish the idea of going back. He went out cycling, spent time with Tommy Harker, had his first cigarette on a gloomy afternoon in the park where, as small boys, the pair of them had used to play football. He coughed when he inhaled, hated the taste of the cigarette, and wondered how on earth anyone managed to smoke enough to get lung cancer like Haley’s father said they did. Tommy said it was all practice.

He stayed with the Davisons for two weeks, then, in August, went with his family to a villa in the south of France, near the sea, where they all got brown and enjoyed the change of scene. While Lydia took James — now a toddler who spoke in halting, half-coherent sentences — paddling along the beach, Bodie’s dad took him out into the bay and they fished. They hardly spoke, but it didn’t matter. It was the closest they’d been in months.

All through the summer, Bodie hoped that Adams might write, but by the time September came, he had become resigned to the fact that it wasn’t going to happen. He tried not to think about his once-best friend. Through strength of will he’d been missing Adams less every day. Besides, Quinn was fun; so were the twins. Bodie had liked John better at first, but was now getting closer to Philip. They’d written to each other often during the holidays. The thought of being with his friends again made Bodie feel better about packing his trunk to return to school. 

Lower fourth. The start of his third year. If he wasn’t settled in now he never would be. Bodie was determined to make the best of it. Think like Draper: just get through it, get a good education, get out. Go to university, live a little, find a lover ... male, female, perhaps both; what did it matter? Draper had painted such wonderful pictures in Bodie’s mind of what it would be like. Freedom like that had to be worth waiting for.

He enjoyed the journey to school. His dad drove, and his stepmother and James accompanied them. Lydia had had Rebecca, the cook, prepare a picnic hamper for the journey, and they stopped at a pretty spot about halfway along. Bodie tried, with limited success, to teach James how to play I Spy, pronouncing the letters phonetically.

He said goodbye to his family in the school drive, and looked around for his friends. He knew far more of the boys now, including those outside his own form, and he talked himself nearly hoarse catching up with everyone. But he couldn’t see Haley or Draper anywhere.

‘Snuck off to shag each other stupid, I bet,’ he muttered to himself, as Quinn got sick of all the reunion bustle and dragged him off to choose beds in the lower fourth dormitory at Bart’s. They met the Davisons there, and were still sitting on their beds, nattering about what they’d done over the summer, when the supper bell went.

In the dining hall, Bodie looked around once again for his older friends, but there was still no sign of them. He bit his lip, feeling a little concerned. They wouldn’t have done something stupid like running away together, would they? If Draper got in the right mood ... and Haley would follow him anywhere, Bodie was certain of it. He was so quiet during supper that Phil Davison nudged him and asked him if something was wrong. He said he was fine.

They were heading back up to Bart’s at dusk, when Bodie noticed the light on at the squash court. He no longer feared walking in on Haley and Draper in a clinch: he’d seen enough of them kissing and touching not to be disconcerted by it, and if they'd started doing anything more — well, it served them right for making him play guard dog for them so often, and he was dying to know what sex actually looked like, and besides, he was worried about them ...

‘I’ll catch you up,’ he told his friends. They were too involved in planning a prank to pay him much attention. He broke away from the crowd and jogged quietly into the shadows. He waited until the coast was clear, then tiptoed along to the court. He entered the gallery as quietly as he could, and was greeted by the noise of a squash ball being hit against the wall. It sounded like someone was there on his own. Bodie peeked over the gallery wall. It was Draper.

‘Jon?’

Draper looked up. The squash ball bounced, unheeded, and came to rest.

‘Bodie. I hoped you might find me. Come down.’

Bodie hurried along the gallery and down the stairs to the court. He was immediately concerned. Even at a distance, Draper had looked pale, and tired, and upset. Up close, he looked even worse. 

‘What’s going on, Jonny? Where’s Hal?’

At the mention of his lover’s name, Draper’s eyes filled with tears. He didn’t appear to notice them spilling down his cheeks. Bodie froze at the sight of them.

‘It’s over, Bodie,’ he choked. ‘We fucked it up. It’s all over.’

Draper’s squash racket fell from his slack fingers. His knees wobbled; he sat down hard, and burst into a storm of weeping. Bodie, face reddening, feet rooted to the floor, stood still and watched him, unable to offer any comfort but his presence, no solace but a sympathetic ear, as he waited to learn the reason for his friend’s despair.


	11. Chapter 11

* * * * * * * *

**PART 2. 1970s.**

* * * * * * * *

**Chapter 11**

Early in the morning of November 1st, 1975, George Cowley stepped out to buy himself a morning paper. It was a regular routine, except for the rare occasions when his work compelled him to sleep at his desk. Work, at the moment, was a run-of-the-mill affair. He was selecting new recruits for CI5, the organisation of which he was the head. Sorting the wheat from the chaff, as he liked to say.

If they passed muster when he interviewed them, he would send them to have their fitness assessed. Then there would be a psychological assessment. If they passed those components, there would be a second interview. Then, Cowley would sign them up, send them on a basic training course. After that, the standard CI5 physical; _then,_ and only then, would he decide who was fit for A-squad, and who for B-squad. Four and a half years running the organisation, and he’d never been wrong about a recruit.

Today, the recruits would have to wait. He had an interview with the Minister at eight-forty-five sharp. But Cowley was an early riser; he had time for leisure. Would have taken it, too, if he were the sort of man who enjoyed leisure. As it was, he walked briskly, wrapped up tight against the chill, conscious of the extra stiffness in his bad leg that winter always brought. He bought his paper, and walked back to his apartment, stopping only once, to give a group of children a penny for the guy. He smiled indulgently at them. Memories of his own childhood, getting ready for the fifth of November, floated in his mind’s eye. Forty-five years, four wars, one bullet ago ...

George Cowley closed his front door and limped into the kitchen. He placed his paper on the table and sat down to the light breakfast his housekeeper had prepared for him. He took a hip flask from his pocket and looked at it: tempted, in pain as he was, to spike his coffee with a nip of Scotch. The flask was of a fine pewter, and engraved underneath: _To G, with fondest love, A._ It had been a gift, many years ago. The giver, he doubted he’d ever see again.

It was the past that concerned him today, though not his own.

* * * * *

‘I have a — a concern, Minister. A question. Probably no more than a quibble over details, but one cannot be too careful. I had hoped for your opinion.’

‘And I shall give it gladly, George. As I always do.’

Cowley said: ‘There’s a name that keeps coming up.’

‘Well? Who is it?’

‘Not who,’ said Cowley. _‘What.’_

He opened his briefcase and produced a file. The Minister took out his reading glasses and glanced downwards as Cowley placed it upon the table. Until that moment, not so much as a thumbprint had disturbed its immaculately polished surface.

The Minister cleared his throat. ‘One of the finest schools in the country.’

‘True,’ said Cowley. Without looking at the file, he went on: ‘It’s produced, to date, two Catholic archbishops, six notable politicians, an army general, four Olympic sportsmen, two novelists, a concert pianist...’

He paused, barely for a second, but _just_ enough.

‘A popular music group, one member of which is currently in a rehabilitation clinic, while another is in jail for causing grievous bodily harm to his then-pregnant wife; a serial rapist, one mercenary, one KGB assassin — and one political prodigy who is now dead.’

He placed another file on the table. The Minister didn’t open it. He looked at the name on the cover, and nodded.

‘Damn shame,’ he said gruffly. ‘He had a promising career ahead of him. Men like that deserve our pity, not universal condemnation. I suppose he felt he had no choice, in the end.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Cowley.

‘Why bring this up now? Is this what you wanted to see me about? Dragging up the past? It’s not all doom and gloom, you know. Why, the young assassin — weren’t you the one who brought him back to our side?’

‘That was my job, once,’ said Cowley. ‘But I didn’t bring him back. He wanted to come. _He_ found _me._ At great personal risk.’

‘I’ll bet. What’s he up to now? Special Branch wanted him, didn’t they? Or MI5?’

‘Och, they all wanted him. Once he’d proved himself loyal they were clamouring to get their hands on him. He's never been attached to just one department.’

‘Dangerous,’ said the Minister.

‘Yes.’ Cowley’s tone was curt.

‘Shame you didn’t have your mob then.’

‘Perhaps. But he has still proved useful to me, from time to time.'

 _And may do still,_ he added inwardly, but as much as he liked and, to a great extent, trusted the Minister, Cowley was not about to disclose his plans on that matter.

'So is _that_ what this is about?’ guessed the Minister. ‘Do you want him permanently for CI5? I understand he'd be quite a prize, George, with what he must know. But it would put quite a few noses out of joint. Certain of our mutual friends might even accuse you of ...'

'That is not why I'm here,' Cowley interrupted him. 'There's another young man. The mercenary. SAS now. His C.O. recommended him to me. I sought out his record.'

'And?' The Minister's lips twitched. 'Dark secrets, buried in the past?'

'Facetiousness does not become you, Minister.'

'My apologies, George. Do, please, continue.'

'Two events, neither directly involving this young man, but both times he has been on the periphery. Two not-so-coincidental coincidences, you might say. Thank you,' Cowley added, as the Minister inclined a half-full bottle of Glenfiddich in his direction.

'Go on,' said the Minister.

'William Andrew Philip Bodie. Born May 18th, 1947, in Liverpool. Father married a rich war widow after the death of his wife. Bodie was sent away to school at eleven.'

'It must have been rough on the boy. Plunged headlong into a world so different from the one in which he'd grown up.'

'I imagine so. But by all accounts, he made excellent progress — up to a certain point.'

'So what went wrong?'

'That is not stated,' said Cowley, accepting a glass of Scotch and taking a sip from it. 'Shortly before his fourteenth birthday, he ran away from school, and afterwards went into training for the merchant navy. His father signed the paperwork, so there was obviously little conflict in the family about him quitting his education at that age. What interests me is what happened at the school around thirty-six hours later.'

'What's that?'

'Our young assassin, then just shy of seventeen, made his first kill. Murdered his English master. Made a pretty brutal job of it, too. Pleaded guilty — but would never say why he did it.'

'Do you believe Bodie was involved? Was he the _reason_ for the murder?'

'I don’t know,' said Cowley. 'What I do know is that the master in question was transferred to the school under a cloud of secrecy. He had been guilty of acts of sexual abuse at his last two schools. The victims were convinced not to testify publicly each time, and the Church simply moved its man to a different establishment. I needn't emphasise, I hope, the difficulties I experienced in obtaining that information.'

The Minister inclined his head, and the bottle once again. Cowley accepted a second measure.

'Now, perhaps you are acquainted with the name Edward Haley?'

'Haley? The surgeon? Retired now, of course, but he was one of the best men of his day. What's he got to do with all this?'

'Only that his son and our young assassin were classmates. Until his father removed him from the school, and had him committed for displaying homosexual tendencies. Less than a year before Father Gerald Thompson was murdered, and a mere few months after the late Mr Adams had ceased to be a pupil. Considering what we know of Adams' personal habits in adulthood, it is, perhaps, not unreasonable to speculate about how he might have acquired them.'

'And young Haley, as well?'

'It is probable,' said Cowley. 'I am also willing to consider the possibility that Jonathan Draper might have killed Thompson for the sake of a friend — not necessarily the boy who had just run away, but one whom he would almost certainly have known well, and who probably suffered a good deal worse.'

'So you don't believe Bodie was involved?'

'Bodie,' Cowley said, 'was over a hundred miles away when it happened. What's more, he was three years younger than Haley and Draper. They don’t seem to have been anything more than acquainted with the boy.’

‘But Corin Adams was a different matter.’

‘I think so. Bodie’s army record is impeccable except for one incident. About a year ago, he went missing for forty-eight hours. He was only confirmed as spotted in one place: Adams’ funeral. When he returned to barracks it was clear that he had been drinking. He refused to answer any questions, was cautioned and punished. His C.O. did not take the matter any further.’

‘Do you think they were —’ the Minister cleared his throat ‘— involved?’

‘Not if the journalist who released the evidence about Adams was as thorough as he claimed. At least, not in the twelve months leading up to his suicide. Besides, Bodie is known, and has been throughout his military career, for his affairs with women.’ 

‘So what advice would you have me give?’ asked the Minister.

‘This school seems to have produced several, to say the least, _misguided_ young men,’ said Cowley. ‘It is possible, probable even, that Bodie is connected with at least two of them, or, has been, in the past. Ought I to bet on a man with such a background?’

‘Yet a man whom, aside from that, is an ideal candidate?’

‘Exactly.’

The Minister frowned. ‘Only you can make that decision, George. Why not interview the man, if you have not already done so? Strikes me, he’s been little more than a victim — on British soil, at least. CI5 might even have a good effect on him.’

Cowley smiled. ‘Aye, it might indeed.’

* * * * *

Reassured about Bodie, Cowley turned his mind to the candidate who would be waiting for him when he reached HQ. He, too, came from a difficult background. Cowley had long liked to think of himself as something of a shepherd, or, perhaps, living up to his name, a cow protecting her young: suckling them, helping them to grow. He had gained a reputation in the Special Services for turning spies. It had been satisfying, knowing that a man like Jonathan Keith Draper, or Ivan Davidovich as he had then been calling himself, could have learnt of him, sought him out. He had made no excuses, no attempts at justifying himself, claimed no adherence to state or ideology.

_‘I’m trying to get home. Can you help me?’_

_‘That depends,’ Cowley replied. He offered the young man a cigarette — he smoked himself, on occasion, a necessary icebreaker in his profession — but Draper declined, politely, like a well-taught schoolboy._

_‘I’ll do whatever I have to. Except die. There wouldn’t be any point in that, would there, sir? No one worth a damn would gain from that. There are men and women who want me dead, but I’d wager they’re no friends of yours.’_

_‘And what would I gain from keeping you alive?’ Cowley asked, meeting a gaze that blazed out over pale, sunken cheeks._

_‘I could tell you things. You’ll expect me to anyway. You’ll want to question me, or your people will. You’ll want to be sure I don’t plan to turn back. My word is not enough.’_

_‘You are that certain of how we treat men who offer us their loyalty?’_

_‘I don’t have to be. I’ll accept whatever’s to come. “Into the eternal darkness, into fire and into ice.” I’ve been there already, Mr Cowley.’_

Cowley forced his mind away from Draper. Arriving at HQ half an hour before the candidates were due to arrive, he opened the top file on his desk and refreshed his memory. Detective Constable Raymond Doyle, promoted out of uniform four years ago after his division had assisted the Yard on an important case. Controversy had seemed to follow him around. He and a sergeant named Richards had helped send down a couple of bent coppers. The feeling of betrayal amongst their colleagues had been strong enough to make Richards retire from the force, but Doyle had been stubborn: so the Commander had told Cowley.

_‘But there’s no chance for him here, Cowley,’ the old man said. ‘I shall be retiring in a month or so, and my probable successor is no great fan of Ray Doyle. The rungs of this particular ladder have been sawn in the middle as far as he’s concerned. I was going to approach Special Branch on his behalf until you came along, but I believe he’d be an asset to your squad. He’s ambitious, talented — ruthless enough, but idealistic with it.’_

_‘Like me, you mean?’_

_‘I said nothing.’ The Commander laughed. ‘Suffice it to say, I think Doyle would suit your purposes.’_

_‘What about his early life? Gangs, drugs — is that a cause for concern, do you think?’_

_‘He has overcome a great many obstacles to get where he is today. He may have been led up the garden path when he was young, but he’s seen himself right. Long ago.’_

_‘And his personal life?’_

_‘Let’s see. Few girlfriends — nothing to hinder his career. Certainly not what you’d call a womaniser, but he has been, shall we say, active in that direction.’_

_‘And in the other?’_

_‘Apart from that incident in training? Not since he joined the force. That we know of, at any rate.’_

_‘I take it you haven’t seen it as a problem, his — tendencies?’_

_The Commander arched an eyebrow. ‘Do you?’_

_‘My personal opinion is of no importance,’ Cowley said firmly. ‘I have my squad to think of — the reputation of my organisation. We must avoid any potential for embarrassment; we must not court controversy. Our work: that is what must take priority. One cannot change the world in a mere sweep of political or moral certitude. That's what the hippies tried — and why they failed.’_

* * * * *

‘Detective Constable Doyle,’ Cowley greeted the young man who had just entered his office.

‘Mr Cowley, sir.’ Doyle shook Cowley’s hand. The grip was firm, palm warm but free of sweat, calloused: familiar callouses, those of a man who was well practiced at handling firearms. The nails on his right hand were longer than those on his left, suggesting that he played a musical instrument, probably the guitar. The shake was swift and decisive, contrived, Cowley decided. Doyle was nervous, and wanted to appear more confident than he felt.

After registering the implications of the handshake, Cowley stepped back to look at the young constable, taking in his appearance and demeanour before he settled behind his desk and waved Doyle into the chair in front of it. Medium height, slim, reddish-brown hair — rather long for a policeman, though maybe not for a detective, these days — curls, possibly artificial; eyes, blue, the file had said, but in this light they looked an indeterminate greyish green. His features were well-proportioned except for the too-prominent right cheekbone. The file, now concealed in Cowley’s desk drawer, stated the cause of the injury: a gang fight, when he was fourteen years old. Two boys had ended up in hospital; one had died, and the other had been Raymond Doyle. 

Now, he was just shy of twenty-nine; there was a grey hair or two at the sides of his head if you looked closely, but his face was still young. When he smiled — a stiff, polite, formal smile — Cowley could see the laughter lines around his eyes and mouth. They made him think of the frown line etched indelibly between Jonathan Draper’s eyes: a memory no less vivid from being five years old. A sad feature, in a man of twenty-five. Raymond Doyle’s career might have taken a difficult turn, but his _personal_ difficulties had been over long ago. Most of them, anyway, Cowley reflected, as he took note of the younger man’s jewellery.

‘Why do you wear that ring around your neck?’

‘I don’t want to lose it, sir,’ Doyle replied. He was deep-voiced, with a distinct, though not strong, Midlands accent. The file said he came from Derby.

‘Fair enough.’ Cowley sought a different tack. ‘Your broken cheek — how did you come by it?’

‘A fight, sir. When I was a teenager.’

‘Was your opponent hurt?

‘I was hurt worse.’

‘And did that hinder you in your first choice of occupation?’

‘No one cares what a grocer’s assistant looks like, Mr Cowley.’ Doyle’s right-hand thumbnail was picking at a loose thread in his trousers. His eyes, gradually, followed his hand.

‘What about your second choice?’

Doyle’s head snapped up, and he glowered at Cowley in what looked like outraged surprise. Cowley could almost hear it: _how did you know?_ He showed neither remorse nor awkwardness at Doyle's reaction: instead, he assumed an impatient expression.

‘Well?’

Doyle’s eyes flicked down again, and he mumbled: ‘I looked the other way.’

‘As, apparently, did the police. But it's my business to know such things.'

Doyle's eyes met Cowley’s, and his voice was acid. ‘You talk about a choice of occupation, Mr Cowley. It wasn’t a _choice._ I came to London because I got fired from my job and my parents kicked me out. The same night I got here I was mugged on my way to find a hostel. I had no cash, I didn’t know the city and I wound up in an area I wouldn’t have chosen to visit. Someone mistook my reason for being there. I decided I had nothing to lose, so I — humoured him. I did it exactly five times, in two nights. Second night, I got caught. Arresting officer took pity on me, gave me a night in the cells and a good talking to.'

'Loitering with intent, he charged you with,' said Cowley, glancing at his file. He looked with sympathy at Doyle. 'As I said, it's my business to know.'

Dredging up a minor criminal record had been easy. The rest had been speculation on Cowley’s part, based on the locality of Doyle's arrest. The fact that he'd been right was nothing to him — the fact that Doyle had told him the truth, _that_ was far more important. The younger man shrugged at the interruption, as if what was or was not George Cowley's business no longer mattered to him: having been coerced into starting his tale, he was going to finish it.

'Anyway, next day he got me a job working for his cousin, who was a fruit seller at the Portobello Market. He kept an eye on me while I was getting on my feet. That’s when I decided I wanted to join the force.’

‘I see,’ said Cowley. ‘Well, thank you for being honest with me, laddie.’

‘Bloke who showed us up said it paid around here.’

Cowley smiled. It had been Murphy’s job to meet today’s candidates in the foyer. Murphy was only a few months active himself, but he was showing promise as a solo agent.

‘He gave you good advice,’ Cowley told Doyle, who nodded. ‘I don’t judge men on their past mistakes. I don’t even judge them much on their achievements. I judge them on what I see with my own eyes. You’ve shown yourself to be a good police officer, but you’ll still have to prove yourself to me if you want to make it with the big A.’

‘I intend to, sir,’ said Doyle.

‘Now, I know you can fire a gun; that’s one reason I was interested in you. What else can you do? Can you swim?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are you a _strong_ swimmer?’

Doyle hesitated, then replied: ‘Fairly, sir.’

‘Well, not to worry, we’ll have all you recruits powering up the river like salmon in breeding season before long. How are you at hand-to-hand combat?’

‘I’ve boxed for the Met, sir. I can handle myself with a knife when I have to.’

‘Any martial arts?’

‘I know kendo, karate ... a little judo.’

‘Do you fence?’

‘Not really, sir.’

‘Not to worry. Few do with your education, and I don’t choose my squad based on social class. With a good initial skill base like yours, anything you lack, you’ll learn. Now, it says here that you passed your eleven-plus and went to grammar school for three years; what happened after that?’

‘I got expelled, sir. For fighting.’

‘The fight in which your cheekbone was broken?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What was the cause of that fight?’

‘Friend of mine got involved in his brother’s gang. Convinced me to join. I was trying to protect him, I s’pose.’

‘This was Malcolm Andrew Donovan?’

Doyle winced at the sound of the name. He looked at his shoes as he nodded. ‘Mal died in that fight.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Doyle shrugged. He bit his lower lip, and swallowed. Time to change the subject.

‘And after that, you went to school in Birmingham?’

‘Yes, sir. My parents thought it’d be better for me to go somewhere I didn’t have a history.’

‘But it didn’t work out. Why was that?’

‘Got in with the wrong crowd, I s’pose. Played truant ... did some bad stuff. Got kicked out of that school after a year or so.’

‘And that was when you went to work at the grocer’s shop.’

Doyle nodded. ‘For two years.’

‘Why did you get fired?’

‘Boss caught me smoking pot. He didn't call the cops or anything, but he sacked me there and then. Dad said if I couldn’t be responsible I’d have to learn responsibility the hard way. You know the rest.’

‘I do,’ said Cowley. Everything Doyle had told him was compatible with the file. It was a good sign: the lad was honest. He was clearly talented, intelligent, determined. As long as he wasn’t going to cause embarrassment to the squad ... 

‘Now, one more question, Doyle.’

‘Sir.’

‘According to the file I have on you, you have been, in the past, actively bisexual. Are you still ...?’

‘Sorry, Mr Cowley, but that’s none of your business.’

‘I beg to differ. It may be legal between consenting adults, but in the public service it's quite another matter. It's undesirable, dangerous; it erodes trust and alienates a man from his peers. As the head of CI5, therefore, I consider it my task, nay, my _duty,_ to ...’

‘All _right.’_ Doyle got to his feet. ‘No, sir. As it happens, I am not, any longer, as you put it, “actively bisexual”. I know my responsibilities, sir. I’ve always considered my duty to come before my personal life.’

‘You and I have that in common,’ Cowley managed to get in, before Doyle rushed on: ‘Why do you think _this_ —’ he picked up the ring on its chain and shook it in Cowley’s direction ‘— is round my neck, and not on the finger of the woman I bought it for?’

‘Sit down, Detective Constable.’

Doyle sat.

‘I’ll tolerate healthy discussion from my agents, but I will not suffer insubordination. If you are chosen to be a member of this organisation, I’ll thank you to remember that, or you will not work long under me. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Doyle looked satisfactorily subdued, though in truth, Cowley understood his behaviour. He’d had good cause to take that line of questioning, but he had expected such a reaction, dredging up the most difficult and painful parts of the younger man’s past. Few men with any pride would have behaved differently. 

No man _without_ pride was suited to CI5.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I may wish to speak to you again, but for now, you are dismissed.’

Doyle stood, all stiff and formal once again. The two men exchanged polite goodbyes, and Doyle left the office. Cowley sat alone for some moments, making his notes. Then, he picked up his telephone, and instructed his secretary to ask the next man in.


	12. Chapter 12

As he turned away from the mirror in the gents’ at HQ, Ray Doyle, active CI5 agent for the past twelve months, noticed a tiny patch of red near the seam on the seat of his jeans. He twisted round to get a better look, ran his finger over the fabric of his underwear. Damn. A hole, and they were his favourite pair of jeans. How long had he had them, now? It had to be at least ten — no, eleven years, for he remembered putting them on to attend his first art class, back when he was training to be a copper, and they hadn’t been new then. A few years later he’d gained some weight, and hadn’t been able to wear them for a while. But then he’d started learning martial arts, and the exposure to one side of Eastern culture had sparked an interest in others. He’d started improving his eating habits, working out regularly, meditating. He’d also given up smoking. 

Now, his health meant more to him than almost anything, and he was as lean, at thirty, as he had been at nineteen: a young copper learning to paint. It hadn't taken him long to learn the basics. Nor had it been many classes before he'd had his art master fucking him against the clay-splattered classroom wall when everyone else had gone home. 

Joe was a good guy. Doyle still got a Christmas card from him and his family every year, and they occasionally met up for a pint. He’d been married with young children when Doyle had known him well, but he had never let that interfere with his taste for young men, or vice versa. His wife had been none the wiser; she still thought Doyle had been no more than a favourite student of her husband's. Joe had made it very clear to Doyle that nothing permanent was on the cards, but Doyle, young and naive, had fallen for him anyway. He hadn’t felt able to continue with the classes when Joe, aware of his feelings, said they had better not see each other anymore. But after about six months, Doyle had gone back, finished the course of lessons, and become friends with his ex-lover.

Joe was the last man Doyle had felt anything like serious about. There had been the occasional encounter — but, as he’d told Cowley, he had known his duty, his responsibility, as a policeman. The job came first. And if that meant sticking to women, that was fine. Doyle liked women. In time, he came to prefer them. 

He hadn’t been with a man in five years when he met Bodie: the proverbial spanner in the works. Doyle had wanted Bodie from the moment he laid eyes on him. He’d also disliked him, from his taste in over-fussy clothes to his apparently shallow personality. Worst of all was the arrogant smirk that almost always graced his features. But once they got to know each other better, Bodie wore the smirk less: he seemed to reserve it for strangers, suspects and conquests. He also revealed himself to be clever, practical, and, occasionally, very funny. He seemed well-educated, although he’d said he left school quite young. They had that in common.

Without the smirk, Bodie was delightful to look at. His teeth weren’t perfect, but his smile was boyish and infectious. He tended to pout, which was an endless source of amusement — and teasing — for Doyle. His eyes were a striking shade of dark blue, thickly lashed, and wonderfully expressive. They could be chilling, sarcastic; they could show gut-wrenching anger and frustration, they could sparkle with humour, or shine with warmth and affection. As the months of their acquaintance went by, and developed into friendship, Doyle saw that look of warmth more often, and what was more, it was directed at him. They bickered and sniped at each other just as much, but when Doyle thought of Bodie — fellow recruit, colleague, friend — it was the warmth he remembered.

For the last three months, that fellow recruit, colleague, and friend, had also been his partner. They were on a trial period, and after tonight, it would be up. Cowley would see them both about whether he considered them suitable to work together, and whether they wanted to stick together. As far as Doyle was concerned it was a done deal. He didn’t want to work with anyone but Bodie. The physical attraction — unrequited, as far as he knew — didn’t matter. In the twelve months he'd been active, there had been other trial periods with other partners, and Doyle had been eager for the time to be up. With Bodie it was different. They knew each other’s moves, guarded each other’s backs without a second thought. They were, as Cowley had often said, like chalk and cheese, but “opposites attract” was just as good a cliché. They shared an important trait: their sense of humour. They both liked football, although they supported different teams, and Doyle was the only one who enjoyed playing as well as watching. Bodie, Doyle had discovered, preferred cricket.

They’d never talked in real depth, but they had talked. A lot. Doyle _knew_ Bodie. Or was fairly sure he did. And cared more whether _he_ lived or died than anyone he’d ever worked with. It was hardly the brotherly love and harmony that some of the partnerships seemed to have, but it was still a good, solid working relationship, and Doyle wouldn’t have swapped it for an easier ride.

He only had to hope that Bodie wouldn’t.

* * * * *

Three hours later, Doyle had another reason to reflect on the year he'd been active as a CI5 agent. His track record had not been without flaws, but tonight he had made an error of judgement like never before. Stung into a show of over-confidence by a silly argument with his partner — the last night of their trial, of all nights, they had to have hit that stubborn mood! — and he, the ex-cop, the one who was supposed to know the back alleys of the East End and be able to negotiate them accordingly, had got himself lost, and overestimated his stock of ammo. He knew he’d been instrumental in getting the op sewn up tight: Cowley could call his actions reckless or brave as he chose, perhaps dependent on whether he got out of this alive. An IRA terrorist cell blown, three dead, four arrested, and one rogue armed bastard who’d set his mind upon chasing Agent 4.5 down to his grave.

Having fired his last shot, having found a way out of a labyrinth of narrow streets, speed and the dark were Doyle’s last allies. He ran towards a shaft of light: a street lamp, under which passed a series of shadowy images, blurred by the sweat that stung his eyes. He could hear them: people, and cars. Light-headed with adrenaline and panic, he knew a sensation of flying. If this was what it was like to die, there were worse ways.

 _And if I do live,_ Doyle thought, _I will get my partner alone, kiss those bloody sensational lips of his, tell him that if he wants we’ll be the best thing each other’s ever had, and what George fucking Cowley doesn’t know won’t hurt him._

He forgot, for the moment, that bar the odd look, for which _that_ interpretation was far from being the only one possible, Bodie had shown no sign of being anything but straight — that their partnership was volatile enough without bringing sex into it; and, for all his lustful thoughts, he’d never once allowed himself to fantasise about _kissing_ him ...

One of the blurred, shadowy figures stepped directly into his path. Spoke his name, once.

Doyle also forgot to disguise the relief in his voice as he gasped out his partner’s name in answer. Bodie’s broad frame was like a protective wall as it moved seamlessly to block his pursuer’s view of him. Bodie, arrogant in the certainty of his right to do so. Doyle, neither meek nor defeated in his submission to it: merely the unarmed half of their perfect whole. 

One long, pale arm swung forward, two shots rang out, and one more terrorist was dead.

Then there was pain, and Doyle knew he’d lived. Death wouldn’t hurt after the fact. The pain in his left side where he’d been kicked, the way his leg muscles screamed for relief, the blood that rushed to his feet, the stinging in his right shoulder where a bullet had grazed him. And his partner might have been blessed with the face of an angel, but the scowl he wore now was far from heavenly.

‘You ...’

Doyle gritted his teeth. ‘You don’t have to say it.’

Bodie’s eyes widened. ‘What, that you put yourself at unbelievable risk? Or maybe, you can explain to me how the hell I’m s’posed to watch your back when you put so much effort into losing me?’

‘I know it was stupid.’

‘Stupid? More like mad fucking _genius._ You drew them out. And Cowley won’t exactly complain that you volunteered yourself as bait, given that it worked. I, on the other hand ...’

Doyle felt the alley wall swiftly and hard at his back, and grunted with pain. Bodie’s hands were on his shoulders, holding him fast.

‘I know you were trying to prove yourself to me.’

Doyle’s jaw dropped with indignation.

‘What makes you think I ...’

‘Denying it won’t make a difference. Don’t take me for a fool, Doyle. I already know you’re a good man. The best. We both are — that’s why this works! My motto is, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. And that includes you not getting yourself killed. Scaring me half to death, an’ all.’

Doyle had never heard such an admission from Bodie’s lips, and he doubted he ever would again. He didn’t care. They’d never been this close for so long before. Even when sparring, they never touched for more than a second or two. Now Bodie’s thighs were pressing into his, the square white hands still grasped his shoulders, and their faces were only a few inches apart.

‘It was a thrill, though, wasn’t it?’ he asked. He put enough sensuality into his tone that Bodie would pull back if it offended him, yet not so much that it couldn’t be explained away as a misinterpretation. Bodie, however, did not move.

‘That sort of thrill, you can keep,’ he muttered, looking at the wall beside Doyle’s right ear.

‘Is it another sort you want, Bodie?’

Bodie met his gaze. His eyes grew a little wider when he saw Doyle’s expression, but still, he didn’t move. Doyle let his hand brush Bodie’s left thigh. Bodie gasped softly, but he did not flinch. Doyle placed his palm upon Bodie’s crotch. His heart beat faster, and his own loins stirred, at what he found there.

‘Thought so,’ he whispered. Bodie closed his eyes, and a deep frown crossed his features.

‘Ray,’ he murmured.

Doyle raised his eyebrows, and, gently, squeezed. Bodie’s breath left him in a huff. Doyle slid his zip down, slipped his hand inside, grasped the hardness that awaited him there, felt his way along the length ... a little thicker, though not quite so long as his own. Big enough, oh yes, and the thought of Bodie inside him, filling him ... it was he, not Bodie, who moaned first, as he started to stroke.

‘That's good.’ Bodie threw his head back. Doyle watched him, listened to him, touched him. He wanted Bodie to lose control, but Bodie didn’t.

‘Ray — do you know what you’re getting into here?’

‘You, I hope,’ Doyle said, making his voice as matter-of-fact as he could manage under the circumstances. ‘Or the other way round. We could take it in turns.’

‘Oh, Ray, for God’s sake ... _Jesus,_ stop it, let me think.’

Grinning, Doyle took his hand away, and placed it on Bodie’s waist, instead. It felt comfortable there, so he did the same with his other, marvelling at the soft skin and hard muscle beneath Bodie’s clothes — God, who had he been kidding? How he’d missed this level of intimacy with men, and this was _Bodie,_ which made it even ...

Yes. Better.

Bodie sighed. ‘I’ve not done this in years. I even promised Cowley ...’

‘So did I. In so many words.’ Doyle spoke his earlier thought aloud: ‘What the old man doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, there’s no danger if it’s just between us. We can’t blackmail each other, after all.’

Bodie didn’t answer that. Instead, he asked: ‘Did you suspect me?’

‘Not really. You?’

He shook his head. He still hadn’t opened his eyes.

‘But somehow,’ said Doyle, ‘I’m not really surprised. There’s always been something about us. Maybe an instinct.’

‘Instinct or not’ — Bodie glanced around them as he spoke — ‘we can’t risk exposure like this. I suggest we continue this conversation in the privacy of _one_ of our homes.’

Doyle shrugged. ‘Your bed’s bigger.’

Bodie grinned. ‘That’s settled, then.’ He began to pull away, but Doyle caught his arms, held him in place.

‘Ray,’ Bodie warned.

‘Ssh. I’m sealing the deal.’

Doyle kissed him then: closed lips resting briefly and undemandingly upon Bodie’s own. They were soft and dry, and they kissed back.   
It was over in a second, but Doyle could still feel it, even as they walked back to the car they’d checked out for the night, and radioed to Cowley that they were safe, and the last threat to the op’s success was dead on the ground.

* * * * *

‘Thanks for going easy,’ Doyle said. ‘I just wish’ — he grunted, shifting himself into a more comfortable position — ‘I could’ve reciprocated.’

Bodie looked at him with an amused expression.

‘You’ve got bruised ribs, Ray. Incidentally, feel free to stay; I don’t want you trying to get home alone and I’m too tired to drive you.’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Well, I’m just saying. We never established any ground rules, did we?’

‘Are you saying you want a repeat performance?’ Doyle tried not to look so obviously pleased at the prospect, but it was no good. Not that it mattered: Bodie just smiled back and said he bloody well hoped so.

‘We should probably have held off entirely for tonight,’ he went on, letting his hand wander lightly over Doyle’s chest as he spoke, then downwards, over the bandaged ribs. ‘I know not all that noise was pleasure.’

Doyle grinned. ‘Most of it was, though.’

‘Need to watch it. Thin walls an’ all that.’

‘Yeah, shame, you hardly made any noise at all.’

‘Wait till you’re on top, I might surprise you.’

Doyle scowled, and muttered: ‘Fucking ribs.’

‘I can wait, if you can.’

Doyle huffed. Bodie chuckled, and remarked: ‘You know — you’re no different in bed than out of it.’

‘Should I be?’

‘Well, I don’t think so, but that’s why this is going to work.’

‘You think so.’ Doyle smiled, and reached over to squeeze Bodie’s shoulder. Bodie laid his hand over Doyle’s, interlacing their fingers.

‘Not that I’m promising eternal monogamy, but it’ll save a lot of trouble when it’s _need_ not _want,_ so to speak. Phone calls ... laundry bills ... food bills ... ink ... my liver ... my gut ...’ He laughed again at Doyle’s bemused frown, and added: ‘I mean ...’

‘No, don’t tell me,’ said Doyle, putting on a great show of thinking it all out. ‘Phone calls to girls. Laundry bills to wash your good clothes. Food bills, read _restaurant_ bills, because you’ll be on less dates. Ink ... hmm. You’re not the type to write love letters, so I’d assume, numbers in the little black book?’ Bodie’s answering smile made him smile back before he realised he was doing it. ‘Your liver. Less dates, less wine. Or, flattery of flatteries, fucking my brains out after an op will be therapeutic enough that you won’t need to get so plastered.’

‘Bit of both,’ said Bodie.

‘Your gut, I assume, is all of the above.’

‘Exactly.’

‘So I’m a convenience, am I?’

‘You absolutely are. Be proud.’

‘Oh, I am, mate.’

They both laughed. It was nice, Doyle reflected, to laugh after sex. Not to have to watch what he said. Not to have to cuddle — unless they ever wanted to, of course. Not to have to be more romantic than he felt, to save getting his face slapped.

It wasn’t so much being with a man instead of a woman; it was being with someone he _knew._ It had been over a year since he’d slept with someone he’d known for more than a few days. Six months since he’d slept with the same person twice. CI5 didn’t half interfere with a bloke’s social life. Bodie, no doubt, had the same problem, but Doyle doubted he’d care.

‘I know what you’re saying,’ he murmured, through a yawn: they hadn’t exactly been athletic in bed, but there’d been a long, hard day before they got there. He didn’t want to sleep, though, he wanted to talk. There were things he was curious about.

‘Bodie.’

It was Bodie’s turn to yawn this time. ‘What?’

‘How long have you known you liked men?’

Bodie raised his eyebrows, but he did answer. ‘Long enough that they were _boys_ when I started.’ He paused, and when Doyle didn’t press him, added of his own accord: ‘I was twelve. You?’

‘I was about that, too — thirteen, maybe.’ _And there was this boy ... this beautiful boy ..._ but Doyle didn’t want to talk about Mal Donovan. He’d had nightmares enough without dredging all that up again. Bodie gave him a concerned frown.

‘Was it to do with that?’ he asked, and Doyle realised he’d been touching his flawed cheek. Bodie, in turn, ran his fingertips over the bump. ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to tell me.’

‘It wasn’t to do with it straightaway,’ Doyle hedged. Bodie nodded.

‘So, when you realised ... did you act on it?’

‘Oh, I acted on it, all right.’ Doyle stared at the ceiling. _How can it still hurt this much? Change the subject._ ‘So which virginity did you lose first, Bodie? Straight or gay?’

‘Straight,’ Bodie answered promptly. ‘You?’

‘Straight,’ said Doyle. ‘I fooled round with boys before that, though, did you?’

Bodie nodded.

‘Do you prefer one over the other?’

‘Not really. I go by individuals. You?’

‘Neither really, but with blokes the sex is better.’ Doyle grinned wryly. ‘Or can be ... don’t get me wrong, I like birds — I really like ‘em. But I like being fucked just as much as I like doing the fucking.’

'Well, girls can ...'

'Not the ones I've been with, mate.'

‘I got fisted by a bird once.’ Bodie crooked an arm under his head, as if he were settling back for a long conversation. He spoke so matter-of-factly that Doyle almost forgot to react. He wondered if he was supposed to be shocked, but he’d heard enough of Bodie’s stories that he could barely muster up the energy to appear so now, despite how much Bodie seemed to enjoy it. He managed a faintly surprised ‘What?’ and got a smug grin in return.

‘Yeah. She really got off on it. Fucking hurt _me,_ mind you. I was way out of practice, so to speak, at the time. You must be too; how long did you say it had been?’

‘Five years.’

‘Shit. I did go easy enough, didn’t I?’

‘It was hardly a second virginity, Bodie,’ Doyle scoffed.

‘No, I s’pose not.’

‘How long for you, anyway?’

‘Year and a half ...’ A pained expression came over Bodie’s face, and he bit his lip.

‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘No, it’s OK,’ said Bodie. ‘It’s just that the last bloke I did it with — was because — someone died. A — a friend. And I just needed ...’ He trailed off.

‘I know how that feels,’ said Doyle. He looked Bodie in the eye. ‘Did you love him?’

Bodie looked at him like he was stupid. ‘We didn’t even exchange names.’

‘No — the friend.’

‘Oh.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I don’t really know.’ He didn’t go on; the silence dragged, but Doyle didn’t feel he could break it. Eventually, he realised that Bodie had fallen asleep. The peaceful set of his partner’s features made him smile. He closed his eyes, and allowed the sound of Bodie’s breathing to lull him to sleep in turn.


	13. Chapter 13

Bodie sat on his couch in the dark, a glass of brandy in the less injured of his hands, and thought back two years and three months. 

Two years and three months, he had been partnered with Doyle. He’d never admit to Doyle that he remembered the date. This day, however, he had good reason to remember forever. He had captured a terrorist single-handed: almost literally. He’d been on leave because a bullet had damaged the tendon in his right hand and he couldn’t fire a gun. The whole thing had been an accident really, a 'scenic detour', as Cowley had cynically termed it, from a day on the river with his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend now, since she’d just chucked him.

This day, Bodie had experienced the greatest risk to his life that he had yet encountered in CI5. It was all the greater because he was no longer used to working alone. All their training, the way Cowley worked them — it all revolved around partnerships. He allowed some men to work solo: Murphy, the man who had first welcomed them to HQ when they arrived for their interviews, was one such agent. Tommy McKay, the agent who had died to save Bodie and Doyle during the case of the assassinated witnesses, had been another. But Bodie and Doyle had each been trained to work with another. 

Two years and three months ago, they had begun their trial as partners. It was a frightening realisation, but Bodie, who had proudly called himself a lone wolf, no longer worked comfortably without Ray Doyle. Not only that, but he didn't _want_ to.

That moment in the attic, when Doyle had rushed to his side ... Bodie closed his eyes. He could still hear the panicked voice calling his name, feel his partner's hand against his chest, see his face, his eyes: the look of understanding that had passed between them.

_Not here._

There could not have been a more inappropriate moment to realise where it had all been leading. And yet ... how _could_ it lead there? They had made an agreement after that first night. It couldn’t get serious.

Doyle had said: ‘Don’t get me wrong, Bodie. It’s not that I don’t care for — I mean, I _do,_ you know that. But ...’

Bodie had cut him off, echoing Doyle’s words to him in the alley: ‘You don’t have to say it.’ Except when he’d said them, there had been no aggression, only understanding. They had looked at each other and nodded. And that had been it. No more nights sleeping side-by-side. No regular assignations. Not even the matey physical affection that Bodie, at least, would have liked to show. Doyle had stiffened, flinched away, enough times for him to get the message. It was hard enough to be close, day after day, when they wanted each other so badly. Their coming together was sporadic, at desperate times: moments when neither could resist the other. Moments when they’d been through hell, and no one else would do but the one other person who understood.

They had both realised the dangers of getting serious, gravitating towards each other by default, once there was more than just their partnership binding them together. What Bodie hadn’t banked on was what he was feeling now: what he’d been afraid of feeling since the first time Doyle had smiled at him, and he'd got almost nauseous from the butterflies in his stomach. What he'd _known_ he felt since he saw Doyle go down with the bullet in his leg during the Ann Seaford case; one moment of doubt, during those few seconds before he knew for sure that the wound wasn’t serious. And now he knew that Doyle felt it too. That was harder, somehow, knowing it was requited, but could never be said. It could never be acted upon.

_‘Real, beautiful, earth-shattering ...’_

Who had said that? The words hovered on the edge of Bodie’s memory, spoken in a half-remembered voice. There was some kind of force field around his brain, stopping the memory from penetrating. There was pain where that memory led. He didn’t _want_ to remember.

* * * * *

What they went through in the three months that followed made Franz Myer look like the day trip up the river that he had interrupted. Worst of all was a nuclear bomb in a bowling alley, which Doyle, of all people, ended up helping to defuse. It had been horrible: a moment that made all the other hells bow before it. Bodie remembered standing behind Doyle as he worked, seeing his terror in the set of his shoulders, all his instincts screaming at him to try and help; yet there was nothing he could do but wait.

They’d joked around about it, afterwards. Cowley pretended to take the credit, but Bodie knew how proud he was of them. He’d given them both a fortnight’s leave, effective immediately. Cowley, whose work ethic would have made most early Quakers’ jaws drop, just didn’t _do_ that sort of thing. Not unless the occasion was very, _very_ special.

‘Seems too good to be true,’ murmured Doyle. He was standing under the shower at Bodie’s flat, looking half-asleep, swaying every now and again as his eyes drifted shut and snapped open again. Bodie had got in with him, not with any hope or even desire for sex, but because he didn’t trust him not to fall asleep standing up, and crack his head against the glass. From behind, Bodie put out his hands to steady his exhausted partner. He could have blamed the slipperiness of the soap on Doyle’s shoulders for the fact that his arms ended up around him, but what would be the point?

‘I think that about you, sometimes,’ he said. 

It wasn’t a bad beginning: better than his previous attempts, none of which he’d had the nerve to follow through to their intended conclusion. Doyle, predictably, laughed.

‘Yeah right,’ he said, but he turned in Bodie’s arms, and returned the hug. Surely _that_ was a good sign. Maybe now was the right moment.

‘God, I need to sleep,’ Doyle mumbled. ‘I’d like to fuck your brains out after ...’

‘They nearly got blown out?’ Bodie suggested, earning another sleepy chuckle from Doyle. ‘Yeah, me too, sunshine.’

'You can do me if you want.' Doyle murmured, pillowing his head on Bodie's shoulder. I promise to stay awake till it's over.'

'No one flatters like you do, sweetheart,' Bodie camped, smiling over Doyle's shoulder. He was touched by this show of affection. They'd never held each other like this. They only rarely embraced — and then, only briefly, when Doyle was drunk, or exuberant after a case, or just relieved Bodie was alive, or all of the above. Hard, fierce hugs, fleeting moments of affection before the most intense of their sexual encounters. Bodie cherished each one, as surely as he looked back on their fucking, his eyes closing, as always, with remembered pleasure.

'Are you all right, Ray?' he asked, as concerned as he was happy that Doyle had not let go.

'Of course I'm not all right,' Doyle replied. 'Are you?'

'What do you think?'

Doyle's hand rested briefly on the back of Bodie's head, a small additional gesture of comfort. Then he let go, pulled away enough to kiss Bodie's lips. Then, before Bodie could say another word, Doyle was kissing his way down his body, going down on his knees.

'London may not have been blown tonight,' he said, 'but something else will be.'

The last thing Bodie remembered seeing that night was the water glistening in Doyle's hair.

* * * * *

'What did I tell you?' Doyle snapped, six days later.

'That it was too good to be true? Yeah.'

Bodie locked in the handbrake of the silver Capri he'd checked out before they went on leave, and got out, jangling the keys. The sound echoed through the underground car park of CI5 HQ. Doyle followed, slamming his door harder than necessary. Bodie smirked. Doyle's moods never failed to amuse him. It was one of the things he loved about his partner: his feelings about everything were so transparent, and because of that, they blew over quickly. Doyle could brood, sulk, lose his temper, but the negativity rarely lasted.

And as for positive things — _I know how he feels about me,_ Bodie thought. _He shows me. All the time._ It was only once that he wanted to hear it spoken aloud. Once, and then he wouldn't need it anymore. He smiled fondly at Doyle, unable to help it all of a sudden. He got a scowl in return. _Well, maybe I won't expect it today._

'Hello, you two. I heard you'd been called back.' Murphy was walking down to his car, looking wrecked. He'd obviously just come off night duty.

'Yeah, obviously we're indispensable,' Bodie said, with false brightness.

'Obviously. Hey, did you hear? Cowley's abolishing the carpool. We'll all be allocated our own permanent vehicles soon.'

'Oh, for fuck's sake,' Doyle growled, and kicked the front wheel of the Capri.

'Sleeping Beauty woke up too soon,' Bodie stage-whispered to Murphy.

'Shut up, Bodie!'

'Shut up, Bodie,' Bodie mocked, good-naturedly.

'If the old man makes me drive one of _those_ things ...' Doyle kicked the wheel again to make his point.

'What's wrong with that? The Capri's a damn good car.'

'It's too unwieldy. I prefer something smaller. So I'd better have the fucking choice.' He started to stalk off towards the lifts.

'Bye, Doyle,' Murphy called, grinning.

'Yeah, see you, Murph,' Doyle replied, waving vaguely in his direction.

'I'd better go, too,' Bodie said. 'I don't s'pose you know what he wants us for?'

'Not a clue, mate. I haven't even seen him this morning.' Murphy yawned, and got into his car. Bodie gave him a close-lipped smile and a wave, then set off after Doyle.

'Hold the lift, kind sir.'

'I can think of better things to hold,' said Doyle, dragging Bodie in by the collar. When the doors closed, he shoved Bodie hard against the wall and pressed in close.

'Ray ...'

Doyle yanked down the zip of Bodie's cords, and inserted his hand.

'Ray!'

'What, you want me to stop?'

'We've no time for this! You want to send me into Cowley's office with a hard-on?'

'Serve you right for laughing at me.'

'I wasn't laughing at you.'

Doyle grinned wickedly. 'I know.'

Bodie sighed. He made himself appear to relax. Then, he shoved Doyle back, grabbed him from behind, squeezed his cock through the tight-fitting denim that seemed to be Doyle's work uniform these days. Doyle gasped his appreciation. Bodie felt the bulge under his hand stir, and a jolt between his own legs as he began to respond.

'Like that?' he purred.

'Fuck!' Doyle sprang away from Bodie as the doors opened. They both struggled to right themselves, pulling jackets and collars straight.

'Thinking of something cold?' Bodie muttered, as they walked down the corridor towards Cowley's office. Doyle elbowed him in the ribs and laughed: one of his high-pitched giggles that sounded so charmingly peculiar, coming from that tough, wiry, deep-voiced man. 

Bodie turned to smile at his partner, and that time, he got a smile back.

* * * * *

'Good morning, gentlemen,' said Cowley, as Doyle and Bodie entered his office.

'Morning, sir,' they both muttered back.

'Now, I suppose you're wondering whether I called you back from your leave.'

'The words "why us" did enter my head, Mr Cowley, yes,' said Doyle. 

_Not that that's so unusual,_ he added internally. _Working for Cowley, I say it more often than I score. Bodie knows it, too; don't make me laugh with that look of yours, sunshine._

'Does your curiosity amuse you, Doyle?'

 _Too late._ 'No, sir.' Doyle gave Bodie's foot a nudge with the toe of his boot.

'My reasons will become apparent. Please, both of you, sit down.'

Cowley eased himself into the chair he used when his leg was playing up, and waved the younger men into seats he'd arranged opposite. Beside the Controller's chair, there was a small side table, upon which there was a stack of paper and files.

'Now. Jonathan Keith Draper. Does that name mean anything to either of you two?'

Doyle forgot to think for himself. He was watching Bodie, who had jumped at the sound of Draper's name, as if he'd been slapped in the face. His expression was unreadable.

'Doyle?' Cowley was ignoring Bodie for the moment.

'Erm — maybe, sir. Is he something to do with MI5? Special Branch?'

'He has worked for both departments on occasion, yes. Bodie?'

'Sir?' Bodie croaked out the word, as if his mouth had gone dry. Doyle wished there was the usual desk between them and their boss, so he could offer some kind of physical support. Normally they could sit closer, touch each other's thighs, kick each other under the table. Not that he had any idea what was wrong.

'Well?' Cowley sounded impatient.

'He's a killer, sir,' Bodie said flatly.

'True. As are we all.'

Bodie opened his mouth as if to argue the point, but then shut it again. His brow furrowed deeply before he spoke again.

'He's a traitor.'

'Your information is out of date, Bodie,' Cowley replied. 'Draper was all you say he was. He worked for the KGB for five years. Three of those, he spent as one of their top snipers. But he isn't any longer. He’s one of us.'

'Then why are you asking me?' Bodie retorted. His eyes flashed with unusually sudden anger. Cowley's flashed back. Bodie swallowed, and added: 'Sir.'

'You and Draper were at school together.' It wasn't a question.

'Yes, we were.'

Doyle looked from Bodie to Cowley, and back again. This was the first he'd heard of anything so far back in his partner's past. He silently thanked Cowley for calling them in together, whatever the reason. It wasn't often that he was privy to details of Bodie's life before CI5. There was barely more than biological certainty to suggest he'd had one at all.

'And I was under the impression,' said Cowley, reaching into a file beside him and pulling out a black-and-white photograph, 'that you and he were friends.'

He passed the photograph over. Bodie took it, with a pained expression on his face. Doyle looked over his shoulder. It showed two quite posh-looking schoolboys, sitting together on what looked like a croquet lawn. One was about sixteen or seventeen, stocky, fair-haired. He was quite ordinary-looking, except for a long, narrow nose, and big, intense, dark eyes — both features seemed out of place, like they'd been cut and pasted from someone else's photograph. The eyes were so exquisite that Doyle felt they were almost wasted on the relatively plain visage that looked out at him. The boy was smiling, but showed no teeth, and there was a sense of irony in his expression. His was not a happy face.

He had his arm around a younger-looking boy, also with wavy hair, but dark. He was paler of complexion than his friend, with a slightly turned-up nose and a mischievous, guileless grin. He was skinny and awkward-looking, not the beauty he'd grown up to be, but Doyle would have recognised those eyes — not to mention those eyelashes — anywhere. Here was his Bodie, aged about thirteen, and despite the mystery surrounding the other boy, Draper, all Doyle could think for the moment was _ha ha, Bodie, so you weren't born as handsome as you said you were._ Then came a great rush of affection for the boy in the photograph. 

As for the man he'd grown into — Doyle wanted to throw his arms around him, gather him in close. Shield him from whatever pain he was in now. Give him back his wide-eyed innocence, the sense of optimism in that schoolboy's face. They were ridiculous, impossible things, but he wanted them no less for that.

_Bloody hell. If that's not love ..._

'Aww, Bodie,' he teased, nudging his partner in the ribs. 'Weren't you _adorable?'_

Bodie glared at him. He glared at Cowley, too, as he handed the photograph back.

'Alright, we were friends at school. So what? That was taken in March 1961, Mr Cowley. Seventeen years ago. Two weeks after, I left — haven't seen him since. Forgive me for asking, but why bring this up now?'

'Because he's your next assignment,' Cowley said, in a mild tone. 'Draper needs our protection.'

 _'What?'_ Bodie stood up. 'He's MI5, isn't he? Let them deal with it!'

'He is not MI5, Bodie. He's worked for the British government for the past seven and a half years, but he's never just served one department.'

'So, what, he's a freelance spy?'

'I wouldn't have put it so crudely. Sit down.'

Bodie sat.

'But why CI5, sir?' His voice was almost pleading in tone.

'Two reasons, Bodie. Firstly, I was the one who helped him get back into the West. He trusts me, and he has asked for my help. Secondly, he knows you work for me, and he trusts you. Now explain to me, Bodie, why Draper would feel that way about you, when you apparently can't stand to hear his name mentioned.'

Bodie did not answer. His mouth resolved itself into a pout. His nostrils flared with the deep breaths he was taking, steadying his nerves.

'Did the two of you part badly?'

Bodie sighed. 'No, sir.'

'Then why is it so painful for you to remember him? If it's not Draper himself ...'

'Mr Cowley,' Bodie said, speaking very slowly, 'with all due respect, and with my assurance that it has no bearing on anything that affects CI5 ...'

'Mind my own business?'

Bodie looked sullen. 'Sir.'

'I thought so.' For a moment, Cowley almost smiled. 'Whatever your feelings towards Jonathan Draper, Bodie, you will overcome them in your professional capacity. You and Doyle will report to Draper’s flat at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. You will remain with him until he has completed his current assignment.'

'Who's protecting him now?' Bodie asked. His voice was sharp; he sounded as if he genuinely cared. What was between Draper and him, that could produce such diverse reactions?

'The security of a holding cell in Manchester,' Cowley answered, 'at the police station where his father once worked. I arranged for him to be arrested for marijuana possession, but tonight the charges will be dropped. Insufficient evidence. Draper will then travel here by train, under police escort. They will see him safe at his flat, and you will take over protection of him in the morning.’ 

'Who's trying to kill him?'

'I'll leave it to him to explain that, Bodie. You're dismissed, both of you.'

'Sir,' said Bodie. Doyle echoed him. Neither of them spoke as they stood up and left the Controller's office. Doyle had to stride to keep up with Bodie, who ignored the lift and took the stairs down to the car park. He was obviously too agitated to stand still.

'Where are we going?' Doyle asked, when they had reached the car.

'Back to my place,' Bodie snapped. 'We've got unfinished business, remember?'

'Oh.' Doyle smiled. 'That.'

Starting the car, Bodie said: 'Yeah, and we'd better hurry, too. I don't expect we'll be done much before midnight as it is.' He glanced sideways at Doyle before he reversed out of the parking space, and some of the old warmth was back in his eyes.

'Bodie, are you all right?' Doyle asked, when they were underway, heading for Bodie's flat.

'Yeah. Don't worry.'

But Doyle did, anyway.


	14. Chapter 14

Doyle unhooked aching fingers from Bodie’s headboard and sat up, still breathing hard, heart pounding in his chest as if he’d just won the hundred yard dash. Bodie had collapsed, face down, on the bed. Doyle watched him for a moment, traced with his eyes the droplets of sweat on Bodie’s back and shoulders.

‘Christ, Bodie.’ He brushed his partner’s shoulder briefly with one hand. Bodie turned his head to look at Doyle. When he saw Doyle’s smile, he smiled wearily back. Doyle ran his fingertips through Bodie’s hair, gently massaging his scalp.

‘That was unbelievable.’

‘In a good way?’ Bodie asked. Doyle laughed, and nodded.

‘You’ve had it, haven’t you?’ he asked, seeing Bodie's eyes beginning to drift shut.

‘Mmph.’

‘Alright.’ Ignoring his own exhaustion, remembering the unspoken code of conduct between them, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

‘What did you do with the car keys? I’ll take the Capri, pick you up tomorrow.’

‘Smnngh.’

‘Not helpful, Bodie. Don’t worry, I’ll find them.’

But when he tried to get up, Bodie caught his hand. Doyle turned to look at him. He hadn’t sat up, but his eyes were wide open.

‘Stay.’

Doyle frowned. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

Bodie shook his head, but his eyes pleaded. ‘Stay,’ he repeated.

_How can I refuse that look?_

‘Alright.’ Doyle lay back down beside Bodie, watching with fond amusement as he closed his eyes, going to sleep almost immediately, without letting go of Doyle’s hand.

‘I wish I knew what was wrong with you,’ Doyle whispered. He pulled his hand gently away from Bodie’s, and closed his own eyes. But sleep would not come. His mind was working too hard, too fast. He was worrying about Bodie and this man they were supposed to be protecting. Jonathan Keith Draper. The pair of them obviously had a history. But what was the nature of that history?

Bodie had been twelve when he’d started fancying boys. Had he had a crush on the older boy? Had Draper taken advantage of him? Was that why he couldn’t think of him without pain? Or was he a lost love, who had not shared Bodie’s feelings?

Bodie had been demanding in bed, that last time. After a day spent pleasuring each other in various more leisurely ways, Bodie’s efforts to appear laid back had finally dissolved. He had been insistent, controlling — yet so much more attentive, too; it was bizarre. Doyle had been watching and listening for some clue that he was thinking about Draper. Would he do something different, call out the wrong name, perhaps? But if anything, he had spoken Doyle’s name more than usual, concentrated more on his needs. It had been rough, but passionate. It had asserted, yet it sought comfort at the same time. There, Doyle’s ability to analyse it ended. There was only mind-blowing pleasure. He had never felt so utterly sated.

 _Do me like that again,_ he thought, _but next time, face-to-face. Let me see you._

Doyle could still feel the ghost of Bodie's presence inside him, despite the fact that they were lying on opposite sides of the bed, no part of them touching. There was a residual ache, and the memory of being filled. The romantic notion that they had become one person in their union. The feeling of closeness, of being loved and protected. It wasn’t just fucking. It never had been, but it was especially far from that tonight.

 _It can’t get serious. We both know that._ But their relationship seemed to be doing that of its own volition. _Now he’s asked me to stay, and I couldn’t say no. I didn’t want to. Christ, were we kidding ourselves? It was always going to get like this ... if we want to keep our independence we’ll have to get out. Now. Before it’s too ..._

Fuck ‘too late’. It was all crap anyway. They were already breaking the real rules. Any others were self-imposed: artificial. And as for independence ... was it better to be independent and miserable — lonely — longing — or just to admit you were mutually dependent anyway, try and be with that person no matter what? Bodie must have known that, deep down, even if he hadn’t consciously thought it. He’d asked Doyle to stay.

* * * * *

Bodie’s nightmare woke Doyle first. He found his partner crying out and struggling, pleading with some unseen force to stop whatever it was doing. The desperation in his voice was horrifying. Doyle had never heard the like from Bodie before, and it wasn’t as if he’d never seen him frightened. But the Bodie he knew would never admit to such terror. Nor would he have allowed himself to be overcome. This was a younger Bodie; Doyle was sure of it. This was a memory.

He switched on the bedside light and turned onto his side, propping himself up on one hand. With the other he reached out tentatively, brushing Bodie’s shoulder. Wasn’t it supposed to be dangerous to disturb someone’s dreams? Ought he to let it play out?

‘Stop!’ Bodie sobbed. Doyle saw tears leaking from beneath tightly closed eyelids. He saw Bodie’s legs clamp shut, crossing at the knees. He thrashed, arms flailing above his head, clenched fists narrowly missing Doyle’s face. Doyle's eyes grew wider as he understood the substance of the dream.

 _If this is Draper’s doing,_ he thought, _I’ll shoot him into soprano range._ He knew himself well enough not to be surprised at the violence of his emotions. Would any lover do less?

He shifted so he was leaning over Bodie, but not entirely on top of him. If Bodie woke to find someone seemingly overpowering him ... Doyle had more brains than that. He grasped his partner’s shoulders and shook.

‘Bodie!’

‘No.’

‘Bodie. Open your eyes. Wake up.’

Bodie cried out, his body convulsing, the movement of his shoulders dislodging Doyle’s gentle grip. Doyle took hold of him again, shook him harder.

‘It’s me, Bodie, it’s Ray.’ Doyle shook him again, slapped his face. ‘Come back — Bodie!’

He spoke the name as a reflex. Bodie had sat bolt upright; his eyes snapped open. Doyle put his arm around Bodie’s shoulders, rested his head against his neck, feeling the pulse pounding there, hearing the quick, heavy breathing. Bodie turned his head, blinked, and began to shift away.

‘Bodie, don’t be daft.’ Doyle shifted with him, and again, tried to embrace him. Bodie stiffened, and Doyle, with a sigh, took his hands away.

‘If you can’t trust me, then who, eh? Come on, mate.’ The words _let me hold you_ seemed so trite and soppy that Doyle could not make himself say them. But his meaning was clear enough.

‘Ray,’ Bodie choked, turning big, serious eyes on Doyle. ‘There are things you don’t know about me.’

‘And knowing you’ve got to see Draper again has dragged them up.’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘Bodie.’ Doyle touched his cheek, smoothed away a stray tear. ‘Whatever you do or tell me, I’m not going to judge you. We’re partners, remember? But I would like to know. Just so I know how diligent a babysitter I should be tomorrow.’

Bodie frowned. ‘Are you saying, if I told you he’d hurt me, you’d let him get killed?’

‘If I didn’t do it meself.’

To Doyle’s intense surprise, Bodie laughed.

‘You won’t kill him, Ray. In fact, I think the two of you would get on.’ He laughed again. ‘Fucking hell. I don’t know why I’m laughing. It’s about as far from funny as it gets.’

‘Well, I’m listening.’

Bodie swallowed. Suddenly, impulsively, he leaned forward and caught Doyle in a rib-threatening hug. Soothing words stuck in Doyle’s throat, but he flung his arms around his partner’s shoulders and squeezed as tightly as he was being held himself.

‘That was a godawful dream,’ Bodie muttered. ‘Sorry if it worried you. It wasn’t so bad in real life.’

Doyle said: ‘It looked like a rape dream.’

‘It was.’ Bodie’s breath tickled the fine hairs on the back of Doyle’s neck before his lips pressed there, hard enough to mark. He sat back and drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. Doyle reached forward and took his hand. Bodie didn’t pull away.

‘When I was nine, my mum died,’ he began. ‘She died in childbirth. My dad remarried less than two years later. She was alright really, my stepmother. But I couldn’t see it. I hated her. I hated both of them for sending me away to a posh boarding school. She was rich, you see. And she wanted kids of her own, and didn’t really want me around at first. Add all that together — off I went.’

‘That must've been hard,’ murmured Doyle. Boarding school made sense, though — it explained Bodie’s ability to turn a posh accent and mannerisms on and off. He would have had to assume them to fit in. _Poor bastard,_ he thought.

‘It _was_ hard,’ said Bodie. ‘I was bullied at first. I settled in — oh, I s’pose, after about six months. It wasn’t too bad. I was bright enough. Could never manage languages, but the rest, no problem. Anyway, before I made any friends me own age, there was a boy three forms up who was nice to me. Scholarship boy. That was Draper. He and his best mate Haley were always nice.’

‘Was Haley a scholarship boy too?’

‘Nah.’ Bodie grinned. ‘He was as posh as they come, Hal. Nice with it, though. Not all toffs are bastards, Ray, you learn that when you live with them. Most of ‘em are pretty fucking heartless, but there’s the odd one who makes up for it.’

‘What about Draper?’ 

‘Copper’s son. Nice when it suited him. He always had — let’s say, an agenda. A grand plan. He was ambitious. He’d been bullied himself, but he wasn’t going to let a silly thing like social class stand in his way. He was going to be a barrister, but mostly I think he wanted money. Enough that he didn’t have to answer to anyone, be left to his own devices.’

‘Yet he turned into a killer and a traitor? And now he serves masters like MI5?’

Bodie nodded.

‘Why?’

‘I’ll come to that. We’re talking about me, remember?’

Doyle returned his wry smile, and squeezed his hand. ‘Sorry.’

‘Yeah, anyway, I settled in. And I was doing well, I was happy, you know? But then _he_ came.’

Doyle bit his lip. A chill went down his spine, and he shivered, seeing the haunted look come into Bodie’s eyes. He asked: ‘Who came?’

‘Father Gerald Thompson.’ Bodie shuddered as he spoke the name. ‘New English teacher. Old one moved up in the world, became headmaster. Shame — I liked him. Hell, I even liked the new one. I’m not too bitter to say he wasn’t a good teacher. When he wasn’t touching the boys ...’ he trailed off. His grip on Doyle’s hand became painful.

‘Ray, do you remember that young politician who killed himself a few years back?’

Doyle frowned, and newspaper headlines swam in front of his eyes as he recalled what Bodie was talking about. Oh yes. The actor's son — the one whom some had criticised for being too young, and others had tipped as a rising star, maybe even an MP before he turned thirty. The one whom the tabloids had exposed as gay. The one who had hanged himself from a hook in his garage, aged just twenty-six.

‘Corin Adams?’ 

Bodie nodded, and swallowed hard. ‘He was in my form.'

'He was the friend who died? The one you told me about, after our first time?' 

'Yep. First of all he was the worst bully. Then he was my best friend. Far as I know, he was Thompson’s first victim. He was one of the best in our form at English. He and I vied for top all the time. But then Thompson started keeping him in. For some reason he hated him, while the rest of us all liked him. I didn’t know what was going on, I just knew Corin was different. He’d always been so happy, but then he just wasn’t anymore. He was really unhappy about _something._ And the way he showed it was ... significant.’

Doyle didn’t prompt Bodie that time, he just waited patiently for him to continue.

‘I’d just discovered I liked boys. Naturally enough I noticed Corin. You must've seen his picture — he was beautiful enough as a man; he was like an angel as a child.’ His eyes welled up with tears, which he blinked fiercely away.

‘I can imagine,’ said Doyle, who — though he would not have used the word _beautiful_ — had not failed to notice the charms of the unfortunate politician: the compact figure with his gently curling brown hair, high cheekbones, and delicate, sensual mouth. He remembered wondering whether Adams had a lover to mourn him. He had never dreamed it might be someone he knew, or would come to know. Not that his partner had given him any real reason to suppose ... 

‘I knew he was experimenting with other boys. I wasn’t, until he asked me. I couldn’t resist. I suppose I had a bit of a crush. You know the kind of thing.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Doyle. ‘I had one too.’ He hoped Bodie would be too focused on his own story to ask him to elaborate. Luckily, he was right.

‘Thing is, I think he was reaching out to me. He never told me outright what was going on — I put two and two together — but I was his best mate, he needed my support, my comfort. Touching me, having me touch him, was his way of getting it. We never talked about being queer. I always assumed he wasn’t really. I didn’t know he’d carried on until I read about it in the papers.’

‘You didn’t stay in touch, then.’

‘No, he’ — Bodie paused and swallowed hard — ‘he left, went to another school. I never saw him again.’

‘At least he got away.’

‘Oh, it had stopped before he left. But I think what happened sort of tainted the place for him. He couldn’t stand to be there. I think there was some sort of money problem in his family, too, but he was clever enough to have got a scholarship. If he’d wanted to stay, he could have.’

‘So, um ...’ Doyle trailed off; this was not an easy question. ‘Did it stop because ... because your teacher moved on to you?’ He shot Bodie an apologetic look, but, Bodie surprised him by laughing again.

‘No, that wasn’t it. That was Draper’s doing. You see, Adams wasn’t Thompson’s only victim. He tried it on with Hal, too. Thompson went for the pretty boys first. I was OK, but I wasn’t his first choice. But Hal — Jesus, Ray, I’d never seen anyone so gorgeous. I think I’ve got a picture of him somewhere. I’ll show you sometime; it doesn’t matter now. The point is, Thompson forced Hal to suck him off. Now, most boys don’t fancy telling anyone when someone humiliates them like that. The abuser counts on it. But Hal was different. He came straight to Jonny — Draper, that is — and me. 

‘Draper went crazy. Marched us up to Thompson’s office, said he needed witnesses. He had a cut-throat razor ... he always used them to shave ... 'cept now he pulled it on Thompson. He threatened to cut his balls off if he touched Hal again. It shocked the old bastard into stopping for a while. But then Hal left school. Went into the navy, I think. Officer training. After that, rumours about Thompson started going round. Then, one afternoon, he kept me in.’

Bodie pressed his lips so tightly together that they turned white, like his knuckles on the hand that gripped Doyle’s.

‘Ah, Bodie ...’ Doyle whispered, through a lump in his throat.

‘It’s OK,’ Bodie answered. He was trying to smile through tears he didn’t seem to know were there. ‘He didn’t rape me. He never got that far. He just touched me at first; I shook him off. He pushed me onto my knees and ... well, you can guess.' Bodie lifted his free hand to his throat. ‘It was only for a couple of seconds. I pretended to choke, hoping he’d pull back, and he did ... I got free and ran ... he caught me, put his hand over my mouth so I couldn’t scream. Bent me over the desk ... I managed to turn over, kicked him in the balls. I ran that time. I ran straight back to my dormitory and started packing. No one was there at that time of day ... no one except Jon. I don't even know why he was there.’ Bodie frowned, obviously sidetracked by the memory. 

‘His eyes were red, I think he'd been crying, but I never found out why ... point is, he caught me leaving. He comforted me ... I told him everything. _I_ told him, Ray, even though I’d seen him threaten Thompson with a razor. I was just relieved to see a friendly face, I think, and by the time it dawned on me how he might react, I’d already said too much. I was terrified he'd drag me back to confront the bastard, like with Hal, but he didn’t. He told me to leave, get as far away as I could. He helped me sneak out. So I just went home. I never told my dad and stepmother what had happened, but I think they guessed. They never tried to make me go back. They just said “we’ll see”, you know, like parents do. Then two days later’ — Bodie swallowed again — ‘they found Thompson dead. He’d had his throat cut. He'd been castrated, too — possibly while he was still alive.'

'Fuck,' Doyle breathed. He could guess what had happened, who was responsible.

'And Draper pleaded guilty,' Bodie said, confirming Doyle's suspicions. 'He’d waited two days so I’d have an alibi, then did it. He never told them why. Never once tried to defend himself.’

‘But you think he did it for you?’ Doyle guessed. To his surprise, Bodie shook his head.

‘No, I know he didn’t. He did it for Hal. He’d been stewing over it for months; I ... I think I was just the last straw. Anyway, Draper got put away in some juvenile institution. Got out in his '20s and took the first train to Moscow, far as I know. I never saw _him_ again either. I refused to go back to school, so my dad said if I was going to leave I was going to do something useful; we talked, he suggested the merchant navy. I didn’t care what I did as long as I got away from home, so I agreed. He signed me up when I turned fourteen, I went into training — rest is history.’

'What made you become a mercenary?' Doyle asked.

'Money,' Bodie said shortly. 'And, I thought, more freedom. Both were bullshit, of course. Why do you think I ended up working for CI5? 'S not exactly a gold mine, but it's better than the army. Any sort of army.'

'But there is more freedom.'

'Sort of,' said Bodie. 'Day to day, perhaps.'

'You mean,' Doyle said ruefully, 'if we ignore the fact that we sold our souls to His Holiness George Cowley?'

Bodie laughed. 'That's the part I try to forget.'

There was a long silence, during which neither man looked at the other. Finally, Bodie sighed. He squeezed Doyle's hand once more before letting him go.

'Thanks for listening, mate.'

'Any time.' Doyle smiled, and kissed his shoulder. 'Will you be able to sleep?'

Bodie nodded. 'Think so. But there's something I want first.'

'Oh?' Doyle arched an eyebrow, and then breathed in sharply, as Bodie began to touch him, stroking gently until he hardened. Bodie leaned forward and kissed his neck. With his lips against Doyle's ear, he said: 'I want you inside me. Right now.'

Doyle put his arms around Bodie, pulling him down on top. Then he rolled them both over, sat astride Bodie's hips, and rubbed his swelling erection against his partner's.

'That,' he purred, between nips of Bodie's earlobe, 'I can do.'


	15. Chapter 15

Doyle awoke the next day to the sound of rustling. Disoriented, and aching from Bodie's myriad attentions on the previous day and evening, he manoeuvred himself somewhat awkwardly out of bed. Bodie was fully dressed, wearing one of his less fussy, and therefore Doyle's favourite, ensembles: his tan-coloured leather jacket and black cords. He was halfway under his bed, rummaging. With a mischievous grin, Doyle knelt behind him.

'Now there's a nice view to wake up to,' he said.

'Thought I heard you ...' Bodie trailed off as Doyle's hands found his black-clad arse and began to knead and stroke. 'Ray, that's bloody distracting.'

'Not my fault you got dressed too soon.'

Doyle reached around for Bodie's belt buckle. Since Bodie didn't object, and, what was more, resumed his rummaging, Doyle knew he was ignoring him on purpose. Nor did Bodie say a word when Doyle hooked his fingers under two waistbands, and yanked down trousers and underpants in one pull. At the sight of his partner's bared backside, Doyle's morning hard-on intensified. Biting his lip, he reached out with one hand towards the bedside table, where a half-empty tube of lubricant still rested from the night before. Hastily he coated his fingers, then, slipping them between the cheeks of Bodie's arse, he began to tease and caress.

Bodie, Doyle considered, showed remarkable resilience. His breathing barely quickened, and only became a little laboured. Doyle let one finger mimic the swirling of his tongue, and wished he'd thought of that first: he hated the taste of the lube. He felt a stab of satisfaction when he heard Bodie sigh. He thrust his index finger forward, then inserted the middle one alongside. He made a scissoring motion, then curled his fingers, moving gently yet decisively, gradually pushing further in.

Bodie gasped loudly. The tight flesh around Doyle's fingers convulsed. Almost reverently, Doyle breathed his name.

'Ray, will you let me get out of here?'

'Maybe.'

'Aww, come on. I'll hit my head if you do that to me again ... shit!'

Doyle had hit the mark again, as, it seemed, had Bodie's head; there was a dull thump as he swore.

'Ow ... ‘

‘Sorry.’ Doyle withdrew his fingers, trying not to laugh. 

‘A- _ha!_ Found it!'

'What?'

'Never you mind. Let me sit up.'

Doyle sat back, trying not to snicker as his half-naked partner shuffled awkwardly backwards, rubbing the top of his head. There was nothing in his hand, however.

'What were you looking for?'

'Curiosity killed the Doyle. That is, if I don't see 'im first. _Ow.'_

Doyle folded his arms. 'Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it.'

'I haven't the slightest intention.' Bodie was removing his trousers and underwear, manoeuvring them carefully over his shoes. He put them neatly to one side, took off his shoes and socks, then knelt up against the bed, sticking his arse out, shooting Doyle an amused look over his shoulder. 'Come on, then. You look ready enough.'

'Honey-tongue,' Doyle said with a snort. He lined himself up behind Bodie and pushed.

_'Ahhhhh ...'_

Bodie was open, receptive, from Doyle's recent ministrations as well as their lovemaking only a few hours earlier. Doyle slid easily inside him, up to the hilt, and no number of experiences could ever make him appreciate less that first, almost magical moment, as his partner engulfed him completely. His whole being seemed to fill all of Bodie ... a meeting of equals, a melding of souls, and there was nothing in the world more perfect.

'Oh, mate, that's beautiful. You OK?'

'More than OK,' Bodie half-whispered, half-grunted. 'Get moving, Ray. That's it. Just there. Oh, Christ, Ray, keep going, don't stop ...'

He stopped speaking, cried out, as Doyle reached around him to grasp his cock. He pumped it in time with his thrusts, until he lost his ability to keep rhythm and just stroked and squeezed clumsily, irregularly. The tight, slippery heat surrounding him, the feel of the throbbing hardness in his hand, pushed him on, and on, past the point of no return, until Bodie's climactic yell and the seed spilling over his fingers finished him. Then he was a quivering mess, leaning heavily against his partner, dropping kiss after kiss between his shoulder blades and hoping that Bodie could not tell the degree of passion in them. There would be a time to tell him, but the time was not now.

* * * * *

They pulled up outside the address Cowley had given them about an hour later. Doyle was driving. He had insisted on going back to HQ and swapping the Capri for an Escort RS2000: a zippy little white number with a black roof and a _vroooom_ that satisfied the soul. If Cowley did restrict them all to a car each, Doyle wanted that one.

Bodie had still not told him what he had retrieved from underneath his bed. Doyle didn't like to press him. He'd been cheerful enough when they were still at his flat, but now they were approaching Draper's place, he was starting to appear uneasy again. Doyle wondered if their talk last night had done any good at all. Perhaps Bodie did look a _little_ less haunted.

'Ready?' he asked, as he switched off the engine.

'As I'll ever be,' Bodie said.

'Aren't you looking forward to seeing him — even a bit?'

'A lot, actually,' Bodie admitted. 'It's just ...' he sighed, and shrugged.

'Memories,' Doyle guessed. Without meeting his eyes, Bodie nodded. As they got out of the car and headed for the front steps of the block of flats where Draper lived, Doyle's own stomach was churning. He was twitchy. He wanted to walk ahead of his partner. He wanted to smash Draper's head into the wall. He was furious with this man he'd never met.

Bodie overtook Doyle on the steps, and pressed the correct buzzer. Half a minute later, a voice came over the intercom.

'Yes.'

'Jon?'

 _'Bodie?_ Is that you?' The voice was light, faintly Northern, and cheerfully disbelieving. 'That's never you.'

'Of course it's me, you idiot. I'm thirty — d'you think I'd still sound like a kid?'

There was a snort of laughter. 'OK, fair enough.’ The voice deepened. ‘Pass, friend.' The door buzzed, Bodie opened it, and they climbed two flights of stairs to Draper's front door. Bodie only managed one knock before it was flung open. 

The man on the threshold was in his early thirties, perhaps an inch shorter than Doyle, with mid-brown hair curling loosely to his jaw and a light beard shadowing his mouth and chin. He was wearing baggy jeans and a well-worn, light blue jumper that looked at least a size too big for him. He was barefoot, which showed an old injury: his left middle toe was little more than a stump, scarred on the top, as if it had been cut off and then cauterised. Doyle dreaded to think by whom.

His eyes were still darkly beautiful, and they no longer looked out of place. His face had matured to catch up with his better features. But Draper was not a healthy-looking man. He was far too thin, and his gaunt, sallow cheeks had little colour. Far from rendering him unattractive, however, it all gave him a look of tragic intensity. 

But there was warmth as well: seeing Bodie, his face split into a broad grin that showed even, quite pointed white teeth, and he flung himself forward impulsively to hug him. Doyle's stomach muscles clenched when Bodie put his arms around his old friend. The urge to beat seven types of shit out of Draper grew, not diminished, at seeing Bodie pleased to see him after all.

'Bodie! I still can't believe it's you.'

The two men pulled apart to survey each other. Draper waved Bodie and Doyle inside a narrow but well-lit hallway. Doyle closed the door behind them, eyes and ears fixed on Draper and his partner.

'Me neither,' Bodie answered, with a smile that showed none of his earlier nervousness. 'Look at you — you're so different!'

Draper's eyes dropped to his feet; he'd obviously noticed them looking. When he glanced up again, his eyes took in both Bodie and Doyle, and he said, curtly: 'Frostbite. Siberia, 1969. Anything else?'

'I didn't mean _that,'_ Bodie protested. 'I just meant different.'

Draper arched an eyebrow. 'In a good way?'

'I'll say.' Bodie’s voice was admiring, bordering on flirtatious. It seemed to amuse Draper, but it made Doyle grit his teeth.

'Well, so are you. In a _very_ good way.'

Draper hugged Bodie again, and kissed his cheek, as if they were brothers. Even from where he was standing, Doyle saw that the gesture surprised Bodie. He was surprised himself: this was not the Jonathan Draper he had imagined. He seemed laid-back, carefree — he was warm and affectionate, just a man reunited with a friend with whom he'd once been very close. Was this a murderer, a traitor, an ex-KGB sniper? 

Doyle's speculations were interrupted: Bodie chose that moment to remember he existed.

'Erm — Jonny, this is Ray Doyle. Ray, this is Jonathan Draper.'

'Draper.'

'Doyle.'

They shook hands. Draper had a gunman's callouses, and a firm handshake. His eyes searched Doyle as he greeted him. Doyle was used to men like that in his and Bodie's line of work, but even so, Draper's frank gaze was rather disconcerting. Doyle stared right back at him. If Draper thought he could intimidate him with these tactics, he had another think coming.

A shame, then, that Draper had apparently no idea he had been challenged. His searching look changed quickly to a smile. The mischief in his eyes appealed to Doyle. If Bodie _had_ fancied Draper when they were kids, he could understand why. 

_Long as you don't_ still _fancy him, sunshine ..._

‘Come on in,’ said Draper. He led the way down the hall and through a doorway to the right, which led into a sizeable lounge-dining room with a kitchen beyond. The room was furnished with two couches and two armchairs. Sitting on one of the couches were two uniformed police officers. Draper flashed them both a grin.

‘Alright, plods, you can go home now.’

The men exchanged a glance. One looked amused, the other irritated.

‘CI5?’ the latter asked, eyeing Bodie and Doyle.

‘That’s right,’ said Doyle. ‘I understand we’ll be taking over from now on.’

‘Those are our instructions,’ said the policeman. ‘Can I see some identification?’

Doyle and Bodie both produced their IDs. The policeman checked them over with, what seemed to Doyle, unnecessary thoroughness. Finally, he nodded.

‘Alright. Thank you, gentlemen, we’ll be off now.’

‘I’ll see you out,’ Draper said.

‘Don’t worry about it, Jon,’ the second officer said. ‘You should stay away from the door.’

‘D’you want to make me paranoid?’ Draper asked, but he smiled, and put up his hands in surrender.

‘See you then, Mickey. Good to catch up.’

‘Yeah, bye Jon.’

The two policemen left the room. A moment later, the front door banged.

‘I was at junior school with him,’ Draper said to Bodie. ‘His dad and my dad were coppers together. I bet Mick’s dad’s proud as punch that his son followed in his footsteps. Mine had no such luck.’

‘But you’re still in touch with him?’

‘Yeah.’ Draper looked momentarily wistful. ‘It’s hard for him. But he’s persisted.’

‘Good on him,’ said Bodie. ‘Mine nearly disowned me when he found out I was a merc. Warmed up to me again when I joined the SAS, though.’

‘Do you still see your family?’

‘They’re all in Spain now. I see James every year around Christmas, when he comes to London. Lydia writes. I write back, sometimes. My dad — we have the occasional phone conversation, but nothing more than that.’

Draper nodded, as if understanding. Doyle looked from one to the other. These details of Bodie’s family members were all news to him.

‘Who’s James?’ he asked, feeling a bit stupid, but curiosity getting the better of him.

‘My brother,’ Bodie explained, turning to face Doyle. ‘Well — half-brother. I did mention him, remember, when you asked me out to the pub last Christmas?’

‘Vaguely,’ said Doyle, who was fairly sure that Bodie had never mentioned any such person. In fact, he was sure Bodie had turned him down because he had a date with a woman. But Doyle had been so busy being, he’d felt at the time, irrationally hurt at the rejection, that maybe he’d misunderstood.

_That’s right ... he called him Jamie ... I thought he meant Jamie Kingsley from the typing pool ... Jesus Christ, how much of a jealous moron can you get?_

By the time Doyle had figured this out, Bodie had started walking around Draper’s living room, looking at the things he had on display. Draper was giving him a running commentary.

'... really wanted to go, but I had school of course,' he was saying, as he turned a cricket ball over in his hand. 'So Dad brought a ball to the game and got the signatures after. I was so happy he kept it all those years.'

'You've got so much music,' Bodie said, walking over to the set of shelves that held Draper’s stereo and record collection. 'Ray's only just got more than you, and he's been here the whole time.'

'I was determined to catch up after I got home. You missed the '60s too, right?' Draper asked. Bodie nodded. 'Was that when you were in Africa? It must have been. It was '69 when I wrote. Your stepmum said you were out of the country.'

'I was back six months after that.'

'Beat you by two,' Draper murmured.

'You're more organised than me,' Doyle chipped in, looking at the series of shelves, lettered A to Z, filled with records and cassettes.

'I find order comforting. It's one of the perks of being mad.' Draper crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. Doyle laughed.

'Ooh, you're slipping,' said Bodie, running his finger along the titles. 'You've got a Queen album filed under H ... and ... Meatloaf ... Aerosmith ... Sydney Bechet ... Kenny Ball? Jesus ... Don Partridge ... oh, The Hollies, that's H ... but, Noel Coward ... Pilot ... Jefferson Airplane ... McGuinness Flint? What's H s'posed to stand for?'

'Oh, come off it, Bodie. What do you _think_ it stands for?' 

Draper sounded annoyed, bitter, sad: his hand, resting on top of the shelves, tensed up so the tendons stood out. First surprise, then understanding, then sympathy, came into Bodie's face.

'Still?' he asked, softly.

'More every day,' Draper replied. His eyes met Bodie's. They shared a look that Doyle did not understand. He felt, again, that irrational discomfort. Usually it was him and Bodie with the shared knowledge, the in-jokes, the private glances. Bodie hadn't seen Draper in over fifteen years — what business did he have, coming in out of nowhere, wresting that position from Doyle?

'So — do you ever see anyone from school?' Draper asked, with obviously false casualness.

'No, not since I left. You?'

'Occasionally,' Draper answered. 'Every few months, a couple of us try and get together. It's been over a year now, what with one thing and another — it's not for lack of want, though,' he added quickly. Bodie nodded: again, that look of understanding passed between them.

'Well, at least you have that.'

'Yeah, I suppose,' Draper said with a sigh. 'Tea?'

'Wouldn't say no. Ray?'

_Oh, how nice, you remembered me._

'Cheers, yeah,' Doyle said, forcing a smile in Draper's direction. With an amiable nod, Draper disappeared into the kitchen.

'Just tell me one thing, Bodie,’ he said in a low voice, when there was a closed door between them and Draper. ‘Ought I to feel threatened, here?'

'Threatened?' Bodie repeated. 'Why on earth should you? Threatened about what?'

'You know perfectly well about what,' Doyle muttered, between clenched teeth.

'If you mean _us,'_ Bodie whispered, 'I wasn't aware we were exclusive enough for _threats_ to be valid.’

‘We’ve only ever slept with women!’ Doyle whispered back.

‘God, and you call _me_ sexist! What difference does it make?’

‘I don’t know, but there is one.’

Doyle _did_ know: the thought of another man taking Bodie ... possessing him ... how stupid would _that_ sound if he said it out loud? He settled for a defiant glare, and got a wounded look in return: Bodie obviously wasn’t in the mood to fight with him. Before either of them could say anything else, the kitchen door opened, and Draper’s head appeared.

‘Sugar?’

‘Yes, sweetheart?’ Bodie teased. Draper snorted. Doyle’s lip curled. Draper glanced from one to the other, grinned, said: ‘I’ll just bring everything out,’ and disappeared again.

‘Now look, Ray,’ Bodie said in a low voice, stepping up close to Doyle. ‘Even if I did fancy Jon — and frankly, it’s none of your business whether I do or not — it wouldn’t be reciprocated. He hasn’t got it in him to fancy another bloke.’

‘Oh.’

Doyle looked at his feet to try and hide the warmth in his cheeks. He had jumped to the conclusion that Draper was queer, just because he’d been Bodie’s friend at school, and Bodie had spoken fondly of him ... and, yes, he seemed a little flamboyant, but what of it? 

_Stupid, jealous arsehole!_ Doyle berated himself. He was almost relieved when the door banged, and Draper reappeared with a laden tray, which he placed in the middle of the round dining table.

‘Tea, dearies!’ he said, in a screechy voice reminiscent of certain Monty Python sketches.

‘Morning, Mrs Sartre!’ Bodie replied, letting Draper wave him into a seat. Doyle sat down next to him. _Just join in,_ he told himself, and quoted from the same sketch Bodie had: ‘The bourgeoisie this, the bourgeoisie that!’

The other two laughed as if he was just anyone, not the outsider he’d been telling himself he was. It was like starting the new school in Birmingham all over again, except it hadn’t been Python then; it was all Norman Wisdom, the Goons, things like that. He’d won a group of boys over with his Eccles impression. The same boys had got him onto cigarettes, spliffs, alcohol, sex with girls — well, women, to start off with. He’d lost his ‘straight’ virginity to his twenty-three year old dance teacher, to whom he’d gone for lessons to impress a girl his own age: a girl who’d never come across, despite his efforts. He certainly didn’t plan on admitting _that_ to Bodie.

‘Groat for thy musings,’ said Bodie.

‘Hmm?’

‘I just made your tea.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’

‘To be fair,’ said Draper to Bodie, ‘he just made yours, too.’

‘Did I?’ asked Doyle, at the same time as Bodie asked ‘Did he?’ Draper threw his head back and guffawed.

‘Jesus fucking Christ! Cowley’s finest, firing on all cylinders.’

‘Ah, but we can also load our guns in our sleep,’ said Bodie, inclining his cup as if it were a wine glass. With a mock-innocent expression, Draper asked: ‘And do you fire before or after you wake up?’ He giggled like a schoolboy when Bodie punched him.

‘Ah, now, remember lads, bob and weave, bob and weave,’ he said, in a rather high-pitched, aristocratic voice. 

It was Bodie's turn to crack up, adding in a similar voice: ‘And nothing below the belt!’

Draper gasped theatrically. ‘What, _nothing,_ sir?’

‘Ha! Kendall gave you fifty lines for that crack, I remember.’

‘And Hal sat with me and wrote them out in Greek,’ Draper added, with a fond smile. ‘Beat me, too, the little sod.’

‘That’s right — bloody hell, I bet Higgins loved him.’

‘Oh, yeah. He came top every year. I wonder if it ever occurred to Higgins to consider what Hal might have been reading in his spare time?’

‘Oh, Euclid, naturally.’

‘Of course.’

They shared another one of those private smiles. Doyle tried not to be annoyed. It was only natural how they were behaving, old school chums with their shared history. He’d be the same, if he ran into one of his mates from the force. There’d been that pub lunch with Benny about a year ago — Benny, like Doyle, had been in drugs, and was now CI5 — _and, if I’m not mistaken, Bodie was a bit out of sorts afterwards,_ he thought. 

He immediately felt better.


	16. Chapter 16

Over tea, coffee and toast, and a slightly stale biscuit assortment that Draper discovered in the back of his pantry, they sat and talked until just past noon. Doyle listened to Draper and Bodie reminisce. Then, Doyle artfully changed the subject, and Draper had to listen to them reminisce. They kept him amused with stories of their CI5 training, only occasionally exaggerated. Any exaggerations were, of course, Bodie’s.

‘I met Macklin,’ Draper said, when Doyle mentioned him. ‘I played bodyguard for him when he was first brought home from the East. There was an assassin after him, someone I knew — well, a rival if I’m honest. Nemesis, now, since Macklin’s alive and well.’

‘He’s not the one who’s after you, is he?’ Bodie asked.

Draper became very interested in his tea leaves all of a sudden. He glanced up briefly, with a rueful smile. ‘S’pose I can’t put it off all day, can I? I’ve got to talk about it. Cowley said that was the whole fucking point of getting you two in a day early, rather than just keeping the police guard on me. He thought it’d be better if I told you, rather than him giving you some standard impersonal briefing. Since you and I are old mates, an’ all, Bodie.’ He fiddled with the handle on his teacup. The sarcasm in his voice was palpable.

‘It’s OK, Jon, no one’s judging you.’

‘It’s not that.’ Draper looked up. ‘I’m no psychiatrist, though God knows I’ve been to a few in my time. But’ — he clenched his jaw, huffed air out through his nose — ‘I’m not ... _coping,_ very well. I keep blocking this assignment out. It’s not the most danger I’ve ever been in, but it is, hopefully, Bodie, the _last_ danger I’ll ever be in.’

‘So you’re quitting your job, after this?’

‘My contract’s up,’ Draper explained. ‘I made an agreement with Cowley when he brought me home. For every year I worked against this government, I’d work a year and a half _for_ them. I’d be on call, any department, anything anyone wanted. Seven and a half years ... and this is my last assignment.’

‘My God,’ Doyle said, sympathetic for the first time. ‘That must’ve been murder!’

‘Sometimes it was,’ said Draper. ‘I’m not _officially_ on their books, Doyle, so I do the dirty little jobs they don’t want on record. And if I get killed — well, that’s one less person who knows their secrets. I think they banked on me getting killed. But I didn’t; I ... I’ve too much to live for. That’s why I went to Cowley this time. Why I asked for your partner. They’re the only ones I’d trust not to throw me to the wolves.’ His voice shook a little as he finished his sentence. Bodie laid a comforting hand on his arm.

‘Don’t worry, Jon. We won’t let anything happen to you.’

Doyle gave Bodie a sharp look. He'd never seen him so tolerant of someone else's fear. Draper gave Bodie a weak, but grateful smile, before he continued. 

‘Anyway, before you ask, I don’t think it’s our own side that’s after me. I’m not even sure I’ll be in any danger before tomorrow morning, but Cowley thought it best to be on the safe side, in case I’ve more enemies than I think. There’s no evidence of surveillance on this place so far, but that doesn’t mean I’m not being tailed whenever I leave the flat. What we know is, there’s this bloke called Robson. He’s not called that anymore, of course. I’m not sure what his current alias is. We were in prison together. I was inside for a bit,’ he added for Doyle’s benefit. Doyle gave a carefully non-committal nod, unsure how Draper would react if he knew how much Bodie had told him. 

‘Robson wasn’t a real criminal. He was planted there to recruit disaffected types like me, get us over the Iron Curtain, spying on our own kind. I allowed myself to be duped into it. Besides, Robson’s good at his job. And according to Special Branch he’s in London, up to his old tricks. They want him brought in. So, I’ve been posing as a double agent for the past six months, letting it be known that I’ve returned to the Russian fold, as it were. I’ve a meeting set up for tomorrow morning, early. I do my part, then Special Branch catch ’em red-handed. I’ll be passing Robson a file. I can’t tell you what’s in it, because some of it’s genuine. However, I did get word through an old contact that the bastard’s still got a personal grievance against me. He’s never forgiven me for turning. Turning _back,_ or appearing to, hasn’t made a difference. Once I’ve handed over the file, I’ll be shot. Possibly just to immobilise me. There’s a chance Robson might want to kill me himself.’ 

Draper swallowed; he obviously didn’t expect a quick death if his old enemy got hold of him. ‘But there’s also a good chance he wants me dead on the spot. If that’s the case, there’ll be a sniper: probably that nemesis of mine. I think it’s more likely Robson would take that route. It’d make a good cover story; the kill would seem like a grudge between assassins, and won’t seem connected with him.’

Doyle puffed out his cheeks, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Cold fear stabbed through him as he realised just how dangerous this assignment was. They’d be with Draper at the meet, probably posing as henchmen — and there would probably be a sniper, ready to pick off Draper and any witnesses.

‘Why do it, Jon?’ Bodie demanded. ‘Have you told your superiors? How can they let you walk into a trap like that?’

‘Oh, they’ll love it,’ Draper said drily. ‘I’m not just expendable. They _want_ me dead. In fact, I wouldn’t put it past ‘em to try and do me in if I live through this. Why d’you think they gave _me_ this assignment in the first place?’

‘Fuck,’ Bodie muttered.

‘Cowley owes me a favour for keeping Macklin alive,’ Draper told him. ‘He gave me you. Said you were his best men, anyway.’

‘We are,’ said Bodie. ‘And don’t worry. We’ve stopped snipers before. We’ll stop him this time.’

 _Glad you're so bloody sure._ ‘Where’s the meeting?’ Doyle asked aloud.

‘St Saviour’s Dock. Eight a.m.’

‘How Dickensian,’ Bodie said.

‘Yeah.’ Draper barked a laugh. ‘Maybe I’ll be lucky, and Ivanovich will accidentally hang himself.’

‘Alright,’ said Bodie. ‘If your meeting’s at eight, we’ll be there by at least seven. We should be able to scope out the sniper’s position, get him before he gets you. But timing will be tight. Robson can’t know his man’s down until the last possible second.’

‘I’ll be your getaway driver,’ put in Doyle. ‘Bodie’s the better man at long-range weaponry. We’ll need separate cars, Bodie. You’ll need to be able to get away on your own after you make the kill. We’ll maintain radio silence until we’re underway.’

‘Agreed,’ said Bodie. ‘You drop me at HQ tomorrow morning, I’ll get a car and a rifle.’

‘The armoury won’t be open that early,’ Doyle reminded him.

‘Fuck, you’re right. I’d better get it today.’

‘Don’t need to. Cowley’s already arranged it,’ said Draper. Doyle and Bodie exchanged an incredulous look.

‘Nice of him to tell us!’ Doyle, full of indignation, burst out.

‘Bloody typical,’ agreed Bodie.

‘Like I said. He wanted it to come from me. There’s a dark blue TR7, he said, complete with arsenal in the boot. It’ll be in the carpool, and the night porter knows you’ve got clearance.’

‘Great,’ said Bodie, sarcastically.

‘So, if we drop you at your HQ about six-thirty-ish, then park near the rendezvous — few nips of Dutch courage ...’ Draper said. Doyle and Bodie both nodded. ‘Right. Now all I have to do is survive the next, what, seventeen, eighteen hours? Without going completely mad.’

‘You’ll be OK,’ Bodie reassured him. ‘Just think about the future, mate. You’ve never not got a plan up your sleeve.’

‘Yeah, I’ve got a plan.’ Draper’s words were muffled by his arms: he had folded them on the table as a pillow for his head. ‘Going to Europe. Already compiled a mix tape for the Autobahn.’

‘See,’ Bodie said to Doyle, ‘I told you.’

‘Don’t remind me about it,’ Draper mumbled. ‘If I think about that now, I might cut and run.’

‘Which would just give them a reason to hunt you down,’ said Doyle.

Draper’s head made a vaguely affirmative motion.

‘Bastards have him over a barrel,’ Doyle muttered to Bodie, who nodded.

‘Seven-thirty, he’ll phone,’ Draper murmured. When neither Doyle nor Bodie answered — they were exchanging a confused look — he lifted his head. ‘Sorry. Expecting a call, about seven-thirty. What are we going to eat tonight? If we’re going out we’d better go before or after.’

‘You’re not going anywhere, mate,’ said Bodie. ‘One of us’ll go out and get takeaway.’

‘Not bad places near here,’ Draper told him. ‘Indian or Chinese’d be my bet.’

‘I’m hungry now,’ said Bodie. ‘What d’you say to some lunch?’ He extended his fist, thumb-upwards, in Doyle’s direction. ‘C’mon. I’ll fight you for it.’

‘Who’s the call from?’ Doyle asked Draper. ‘A contact?’

‘You could say that,’ said Draper.

‘Ra-ay,’ Bodie prompted, elongating Doyle’s name like a nagging child would. With a sigh, Doyle put out his fist. Three games of rock, paper, scissors later, he was taking directions from Draper about where the Chinese restaurant was, and instructions from Bodie about what to order. After scribbling down a list of food that would probably have fed a small army — ‘yeah, a _tiny_ army, they’d _starve_ on what you fed them,’ Bodie retorted, when Doyle voiced that thought out loud — he got into his car and headed to the shops.

* * * * *

‘Let’s put some music on, eh?’ Bodie suggested. ‘Or the TV, or something. You need distraction, mate.’

‘I’ve been driven to it.’ Draper rested his head back on his arms. ‘I’ll be alright tomorrow, Bodie. ‘S just today.’

‘No shame in being scared before an op. Ray and me —' Bodie paused, briefly, to consider his words, remembering that he hadn't told Draper about their relationship '— we’ve never really talked about it, but we respect each other’s right to flap if there’s a long wait before action. We goad each other a lot, but those times — we do or say what each other needs. Which includes nothing. Well. Most of the time it’s nothing. We’re not all that great at the old heart-to-heart, me and him.’

‘Most blokes aren’t,’ said Draper, bitterly. ‘We’re conditioned out of it. Men aren’t meant to have _feelings._ People have a pretty screwed-up idea of what’s manly, you know. You’re either a tough cave-man type or you’re all _arty.’_ He said the last word in a camp voice. ‘They think if you’re capable of violence you’re not capable of love. Far as I’m concerned it’s all the fucking same.’

‘Well,’ said Bodie. ‘Violence for you — always been about love, hasn’t it?’

‘Avenging it — replacing it — finding my way back to it ...’

‘Replacing it?’ Bodie asked.

‘Yeah. I haven’t told you why I went over to the Ruskies, have I?’

‘Hal never rejected ...’

‘Fuck, no!’ Draper’s head snapped up and he glared at Bodie, as if reacting to an insult. ‘No. His arsehole of a father told me he was dead.’

_‘What?’_

‘Yeah,’ Draper spat. His eyes were dark with emotion, his teeth bared in a snarl. ‘When I got sent down for doing Thompson in, I tried to get in touch with Hal — to say goodbye for a while, sorry for fucking our lives up, that sort of thing. I knew he’d stick with me, but I never expected him to come and see me before we came of age; in fact I wanted to discourage him. I had no idea where he was. For all I knew he was still in that fucking institution.’

‘Oh yes,’ Bodie said softly. ‘Hal’s dad carried out his threat.’ 

Draper nodded. ‘I was afraid of what he might do if I tried to contact Hal directly. He already thought of me as the boy who’d corrupted his son, but now I was a murderer as well. I knew it was a risk, but I ...’ he paused after his voice shook; Bodie politely averted his eyes from Draper’s while he pulled himself together ‘... I just needed Hal. I needed some sort of contact. But for Hal’s sake I wrote to _him,_ instead. I told him about this letter I’d got from Hal, saying the treatment had cured him and he hoped we’d meet again as friends.’

‘But his dad didn’t believe you?’

‘No, he knew about the letter already. It really did exist. I got it the day you ran away from school. Of course, Hal’s _real_ letter was between the lines in invisible ink. Like they did in the war. God knows how he managed it. Hal loved all that spy-type stuff. Funny that it was me who ended up the spy, really.’

‘Is that why you were upset, the day I ran away?’

Draper nodded. ‘Yeah, it was — hard going. One thing about Hal: he never exaggerates, but he never _understates_ either. He won’t try and preserve your feelings. He told me what had happened to him in there. Real Clockwork Orange type stuff. Hideous. It’s a miracle he never let it beat him. And amongst all that — I’d say it was the most romantic thing he’s ever written me. I’ve still got it. I’d let you read it, ‘cept it’s in Greek.’

‘He always wrote to you in Greek, didn’t he?’

Draper nodded. ‘You know Hal.’

‘I _knew_ him.’

Draper smiled, wistfully. ‘He hasn’t changed.’

‘Anyway,’ Bodie prompted, ‘his dad.’

‘I asked if I could contact Hal to make amends. His dad told me he’d committed suicide in the institution. Intimated it was my fault. Like I said, he always felt I’d corrupted his son.’

‘Jon, that’s ...’ Bodie shrugged, lost for words. ‘What did you do?’

‘I was inside by then, so I couldn’t check for myself. Hal was out, though; he’d gone into officer training, so he'd have been hard to reach anyway without his dad's cooperation. Besides which, I was depressed enough to believe him. So I rigged up my bedsheets on the curtain rail in my room, and hanged myself.' 

Draper’s tone dared his listener to be shocked. Bodie just stared at him, covered his open mouth with one hand, waited for him to continue. He didn't know what to say. 

'Luckily, my social worker was coming to talk to me, so the guard unlocked my door just in time. I was kept under observation for six months. Not allowed to sleep alone. About that time, I met Robson, and became convinced that the best way to get back at the bastards was to get back at the whole fucking system. So I became a model prisoner, got out on licence at twenty-one ... took the first train to Berlin when I got out. Didn’t find out Hal was alive until nearly five years later. Once I did, I tracked down Cowley and came home.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘My mum died,’ Draper explained, a look of pain briefly crossing his face. ‘She had cancer ... it spread so quickly, she was dead less than a year after she was diagnosed. I s'pose we should be grateful; some people hang on for years ... anyway, Dad tried to find me, to tell me, but no one knew where I was, or if I was alive, or anything. Dad and Hal were in touch, in case I contacted either of them. Hal decided to try the papers. He put a memorial in for my mum, and put his name and ship at the end of it. Sort of a classified advert, but disguised. He hoped that wherever I was I’d read the major British papers — I did, whenever I could. I saw the memorial maybe a month after it was printed. I sent a contact of mine to find Hal and give him a message from me, let him know why I hadn’t been in touch. I sent him my signet ring so he'd know it was definitely from me. Then I went and found Cowley. 

'Since then,' Draper concluded, 'violence has been about fulfilling my obligations.' His expression turned intense, almost desperate. 'Bodie, if I survive tomorrow I’m free. We _finally_ get our life.’

‘Is it Hal who’s phoning tonight?’ asked Bodie.

Draper nodded, and smiled. ‘Not that I envy him. It’ll all come out, when I hear his voice ...’ he closed his eyes and mouth against what was plainly a flood of emotion. ‘Shit. Sorry. I’m nearly as bad with you. I’m a terrible coward, you know. Wasn’t meant for all this. I mean, look at me. I know I look like death someone forgot to warm up.'

'You don't look healthy,' Bodie agreed. Earlier, he had covered his worry, complimenting Draper to annoy Doyle, but he knew Draper hadn't been fooled. He nodded now, sombrely, as if he'd expected no other answer.

'I only wanted two things out of life, Bodie. Owen Haley, and a reasonable level of comfort. Why does that have to be too much to ask?’ Draper choked out the question.

‘You,’ said Bodie, squeezing his shoulders, ‘are one of the bravest men I know. All this reminds me — I’ve got something for you.’

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, and brought out a small package, wrapped in brown paper: the thing he’d been searching for that morning, and managed to avoid telling Doyle about. The thing that had arrived at his parents’ house while he was still in Africa — that Lydia had kept for him, along with Draper’s letter, explaining where he’d been, asking him to give the package to Haley if he didn't make it home. Draper obviously recognised the package straightaway; he stared at it in stunned silence for a long moment, then held out his hand. Bodie gave it to him.

‘You never opened it?’ Draper tore off the paper, heaved a huge, relieved sigh as his hands closed upon his beloved notebook, the same one Bodie had seen him carrying around at school all those years ago. It was rather the worse for wear now: the leather cover was marked and scratched, and the cord that tied it closed was thin, and frayed in places. It smelled stale, from being wrapped up for so long. But Draper didn’t seem to care.

‘No, I never opened it,’ Bodie replied. With a smile, he added: ‘I value my life, thanks very much.’

‘You’re the best mate a bloke could ever have. I mean that. Fuck ...’ Draper trailed off, his eyes over-bright, and his hands shook so that he had trouble untying the cord.

‘What _is_ in that book, Jon?’ Bodie asked, hoping it was a safe question this time.

‘Everything,’ Draper whispered. He managed to get the book open, and turned it to the first page. Then, something happened that Bodie had never dared to expect: he handed it to him.

‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing to the writing. It was juvenile but neat: a diligent boy’s hand.

_23-8-57_

_Dear Jon._

_A grownup present, but one that doesn’t expect anything of you. So you don’t have to write on scraps of paper and old exercise books anymore._

_Your friend,_   
_Hal._

‘That’s sweet,’ said Bodie, recalling the fresh-faced, kind-hearted boy he'd met in the school office, nearly two decades ago.

‘That’s my Hal,’ Draper replied, his lips curving with a hint of a smile. ‘He knew even then, how he felt ... was two years before he told me ... but even then, he was braver than me.’ 

‘If I know Hal,’ Bodie said, ‘he wrote in here again after he told you.’

Draper laughed out loud. There was a slightly hysterical edge to it; Bodie could tell he was close to tears. He flipped through the notebook, past sketches, scrawls of verse, pasted-in photographs, finding the right page easily, as if he'd turned to it a million times. He showed Bodie two pages of tiny, slightly sloping Greek, with a lock of dark hair fastened with yellowed tape to the bottom of the second page.

 _How would I have felt at the time, seeing that?_ Bodie asked himself. _Would I have laughed? No, I probably wouldn't. I didn't know any different. I thought Jon and Hal were what being in love was like. It's only now I know for myself ..._

'Can you read any of it?' Draper asked, cutting into his thoughts.

'I could barely hold Greek in my head when I had four lessons a week at school and Hal helping me, let alone now,' said Bodie. 'But ...' he squinted at the beginning of the note, at the word _αγαπομενος._ 'That’s not your name, I know that.’

‘No.’ Draper grinned. ‘That says _agapomenos._ Beloved.’

‘Soppy git, your Hal,’ Bodie said, with a fond smile.

‘He’s just honest,’ said Draper.

 _I wonder how Ray would react if I called him ‘beloved’?_ Bodie thought, as he scanned Haley’s note for words he understood. _Die laughing, probably._

‘That says Achilles,’ he said to Draper, pointing at the end of the note. ‘And that says Alexander. What’s this, a list of great soppy gits from history?’

'"Achilles and Alexander gave their hair when their lovers were dead. But you can have mine now,"' Draper read out loud, ignoring Bodie’s teasing. '"Ours will be grey when we die, and we'll be old enough to laugh at how silly and romantic we were. They never got that chance."'

'That's one thing about your separation, I suppose,' Bodie said, more seriously. 'Keeps the romance alive.'

Draper gave a half-smile. 'Bodie, I just want to wake up next to him every morning. If I lose the urge to tell him I love him six times a day, make love every night, kiss him whenever he walks into the room, write bad poetry for him ... I'll count myself lucky we got the chance to tire of each other.'

Bodie couldn't help laughing out loud that time.

'It doesn't mean you _tire_ of each other. It means you get _used_ to each other. Take each other for granted. Know if you turn round, he'll be there, that he'll look after you if you get hurt or sick or wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Don't you think that's just as romantic as all the other stuff?'

 _'Is that the voice of experience?'_ he half-expected Draper to ask, as he would have once. But he didn't.

'Maybe,' he conceded, instead. 'I'd like to find out. Trouble with Hal and me, Bodie, is we were pushed too far, too young. We've both got sort of stuck. We're still those kids who fell for each other at school.'

'Well. Jonny,' Bodie said, 'if I have anything to do with it, once tomorrow's over you'll have the next fifty years to grow up.'

'Thanks,' mumbled Draper. He sighed, and managed to smile. 'Alright then. What d'you feel like listening to?'

* * * * *

Doyle came back, hands full of Chinese takeaway, and had to push the buzzer with his nose. There was no answer — a sensation like cold hands clutched at him under his ribs — he put the bags down, put his right hand on his gun, and pressed the buzzer again with his left.

Static, music blaring, Draper's voice, full of laughter, yelling 'Turn it down!' then 'Hello?'

'It's Doyle.'

'Oooh, food!'

A buzz, and a click, and Doyle held the door open with his foot as he picked up his bags and headed inside. He trudged up the stairs, resenting every bone in Draper's body. He had just begun to feel sympathy for the man, but a cheerful Draper inspired no such feelings. He was glad when it was Bodie who opened the door. _A Day At The Races,_ the Queen album that had been filed under 'H', was playing. Draper's voice floated out from the living room, singing sometimes in perfect tune, and sometimes woefully off-key.

'It's the harmonies that throw him,' Bodie said, wincing. 'Thanks for going out. Put that stuff down.'

'Don't you want it in there?' Doyle asked, jerking his head towards the living room with an amused look. The music grew louder again, and Draper's singing worsened.

'In a sec.' Bodie took the bags from his hands and set them down. The next thing Doyle knew, he was against the wall, and his partner's lips were locked to his.

'Mmm,' Bodie murmured, moving down to kiss Doyle's neck. 'Ray, you're delicious.'

'Bodie, _you're_ dangerous.' Doyle tried — though not very hard — to push him away. 'Are you nuts?'

'What, I can't steal one moment?' Bodie's breath was warm against his ear.

'Not on fucking _duty!'_

Bodie chuckled. 'Fucking duty, wouldn't mind that.' 

Doyle shoved him back, held him at arms’ length.

'Tell me one thing, Does Draper know you're queer?'

'Oh, yeah. Since we were kids. He was the first one I told.'

'Right.' Doyle tried to process that information without allowing jealousy to get the better of him. 'And does ...'

He was interrupted by Draper's attempt at the loud, sustained high note near the end of Somebody To Love, from which he dissolved into cackles of laughter. 'BODIE!' he bellowed. 'Did you hear THAT?'

'I dare say half of Australia heard that!' Bodie yelled back.

'Look, is he all right?' Doyle asked. 

With a frazzled look, Bodie shook his head. 'Absolutely not.'

'Has he been drinking?'

'Not a drop.'

'Where's the fucking food?' Draper called, coming out into the hall. 'Oh. Not having a barney, were you?'

'We're not arguing, boy, we're _discussing,'_ Bodie told him, in a high, posh voice. 'Food's there.'

'I'll get plates,' said Draper.

'C'mon,' Bodie said to Doyle, picking up the bags of food and following Draper into the living room. Draper was clattering about in the kitchen. He emerged with a pile of plates, cutlery and chopsticks, which he set down on the dining table. He and Bodie hummed the backing track of _White Man_ as they served themselves. With a glance at Doyle's face, Draper took the record off for when they ate.

'Thanks for going out, Doyle,' he said.

'No problem.'

'We'll do the dishes,' said Bodie, indicating himself and Draper.

'You bet you will,' said Doyle.

Doing the dishes seemed to consist more of singing and dancing to _Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy_ — which they played several times, and danced a strange mixture of polka and tango — than actual washing up. Gritting his teeth, Doyle went down to the car to collect his and Bodie's sleeping gear, and to update Cowley.

'How's Draper holding up?' the old man asked.

'Alright,' Doyle lied. 'Nothing we can't handle.'

'What about Bodie?'

'Better than I expected.' Doyle only just managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice. It seemed that no number of kisses could stop him feeling angry with his partner.

 _I'll be so glad when this assignment's over and we can go back to bloody normal,_ he thought, as he tramped back upstairs — and realised he'd forgotten the gear.

'Fuck it, I'll go down later,' he muttered. He knocked at the door. By the time Bodie let him in, he had forced his facial muscles into a neutral expression, and the album was almost over. Draper was sitting in one of the armchairs, humming softly, and scribbling in the back of a battered-looking leather journal. Bodie went back to a book he'd been reading. Doyle picked up a car magazine from the coffee table and leafed through it, watching both of them. His partner seemed at his most annoying level of calm. Draper was the opposite; he kept shuddering violently and pressing his lips into a thin line. At length he sprang to his feet and started pacing, journal still clutched in one hand.

Finally, Draper’s constant movement became too much, even for Bodie.

'Jonny, for fuck's sake, will you sit _down?'_

Draper scowled, and threw himself so hard into the armchair that it groaned dangerously under his weight. He then spent an hour sitting so absolutely still and tense that Doyle couldn't look at him anymore. He jumped when Draper moved again.

'Who's for a game of cards, eh?'

He produced a pack from a drawer, and began dealing cards out on the coffee table. They occupied themselves with various games — simpler and simpler, as Draper’s attention span dwindled — until half past seven, when Draper's contact was meant to phone. But no call came. 

By a quarter to eight, Draper looked close to hysteria. Bodie got up to visit the bathroom, and even he, in his laid-back state, looked at Doyle as he left the room, with a glance towards Draper. Keep an eye on him, the look said. _Easier said than done,_ thought Doyle. _Maybe if I can get him to talk ..._

‘Thought you said you were expecting a call.'

‘I was.’ Draper chewed on the end of his finger. ‘He hasn’t called.’ He sounded as if that were unbelievable, as if he were trying to convince himself of the fact. He got up and started pacing again, up and down the living room floor. His hands were shaking. He looked like an addict who needed his fix.

‘How vital is it for the op?’

‘It’s nothing to DO with the fucking op!’ Draper burst out, hands flailing. Then his shoulders hunched, and he looked guilty. ‘Sorry. It’s hard to explain.’

‘Well, you’d better start explaining, because if there’s an aspect of this case that we’re not aware of ...’

Doyle was interrupted by a knock at the front door.

_Fuck. Did the main door lock behind me?_

Yes, it had. He remembered hearing it click. He'd listened for it.

‘Did you hear a buzz?’ he demanded. Draper ignored him. He’d jumped as if at a gunshot when he heard the knocking. He looked through the open door to the hall, and his brow furrowed.

‘No,’ he murmured, incredulously rather than fearfully. Then, with no other warning, he ran from the room. Doyle’s jaw dropped, and he, too, sprang to his feet. Could someone in Draper’s line of work really be that stupid? Or did he know someone who would have a key to the main door? Reaching for his gun, Doyle rushed into the hallway after Draper. He saw Bodie hastening from the bathroom, also armed.

‘Jon!’ he warned.

‘It’s OK,’ Draper muttered. He was already at the front door. His breaths were shaking as his hand grasped the handle — Doyle’s finger tensed on the trigger — Draper pulled the door open.

Draper stared at the man on the threshold. Bodie looked as if he’d seen a ghost; then, inexplicably, he rolled his eyes and put the safety on his gun, shaking his head at Doyle. Draper stepped back to let the newcomer in, but he didn’t say a word. Nor did the man who entered: a slim, dark-haired, blue-eyed man of about Bodie’s height. With a hand that quivered like Draper’s had, he closed the door quietly behind him, then turned to stare at Draper as if he were the only other person there.

Whoever he was, Doyle realised, he was breathtaking to look at. One couldn’t help but notice. With the exception of Bodie, he was the most beautiful man Doyle had ever seen. 

It was impossible to tell if Draper saw it or not. It took less than five seconds for the spell to break, but each was an eternity of tension.

Draper uttered one small, wordless, broken sound.

At the same instant, the two men reached out for one another.


	17. Chapter 17

The stranger grasped Draper’s upper arms, while Draper’s hands flew to cup each side of his neck. His mouth opened a little, and his eyes grew very bright, in reaction to Draper’s touch.

‘My God ...’ Draper’s voice was an astounded whisper. ‘Hal ... how did you ...’

Doyle understood then. This was the Hal they'd been talking about: Owen Haley, Draper’s best friend, the boy for whom Draper had become a killer — now a man, probably the one whom Draper had expected to phone ... probably the 'H' of Draper's record collection, too, Doyle realised. Haley's arrival had apparently been such a surprise to Draper, he had forgotten they were being watched. Haley, likewise, had not seemed to take in the presence of two CI5 agents at all. The way Draper was touching him: it didn't _have_ to mean anything, but with all the other things Doyle knew ...

‘You shouldn’t be surprised I’m here,’ Haley murmured. His hands moved up to Draper’s shoulders, and back again. ‘How could I not be here?’

‘I thought ...’ Draper trailed off, and tried again ‘I thought I’d ... I might never ...’

‘I couldn’t let that even be a possibility. Do you realise how long it’s been? Nineteen months ...’

‘Two weeks, six days, and three ...’

‘... and a half ...’

‘Hours.’ Draper looked down, briefly, into the space between them. There were tears in his eyes when he looked back up again. ‘Oh, Christ ...’ His voice cracked, and he threw himself forward, wrapping both arms around his friend’s neck and shoulders.

As Haley’s arms encircled Draper, Bodie caught Doyle’s eye and jerked his head. Doyle nodded, and led the way into the living room, closing the door quietly behind them. He didn’t beat around the bush. He said, in a voice low enough not to carry through the walls: ‘Draper’s queer.’

Bodie smiled grimly. ‘No one in this flat isn’t.’

'You told me he was straight.'

'No, I didn't. I told you he didn't have it in him to fancy _me._ The reason just walked through the front door, Doyle. Hal's it. Jon's Genesis and Revelation, as he once liked to put it. Did you think I’d _lied_ to you?' Bodie looked angry for the first time.

Doyle rolled his eyes and threw up his hands: more at himself than Bodie. 

'I did. I'm sorry.'

'That's OK.'

Doyle envied Bodie his ability to forgive so instantly. It was plain that he was forgiven, that a few simple words had fixed the problem. Doyle thought of the other few, simple words that he secretly wanted to say to him, and considered that they might actually go down quite well. Would there ever be a good time to say them?

‘Well, your story makes a lot more sense now,' he said. 'If Draper committed murder —'

'Manslaughter,' Bodie corrected.

'If he _killed someone_ for the boy he loved ... I assume they _were_ together, back then?’

Bodie bit his lip, and nodded. He didn’t meet Doyle’s eyes as he replied: ‘They were so in love, Ray. And so _innocent._ They thought they had a whole life together, stretching in front of them. Now — now they’re just in their thirties, they’ve probably spent less than a month together in total, since they were seventeen, and they have to consider the possibility that this is the last night they’ll ever have. It’s so fucking unfair.’ He made a swift, violent movement, as if to kick a piece of the furniture, but he restrained himself, settling for clenched fists.

‘I hate to point out the obvious,’ said Doyle, ‘but you and I ought to be considering that possibility too.’

‘I always do,’ Bodie replied through his teeth. Finally, he looked at Doyle. ‘But we’re not like Jon and Hal, Ray. Are we?’

Doyle couldn’t reply for a moment. What did Bodie expect him to say? _We are?_ They weren’t. They’d never exhibited that kind of passion. _We could be?_ What would that tell him? _I want to be?_ That sounded like a disgruntled bird whose boyfriend had forgotten to buy her flowers on Valentine’s Day. And he wasn’t even sure he _did_ want to be, wasn’t even sure it was necessary.

‘No,’ he said at length. An odd, fleeting look came into Bodie’s eyes: he blinked, and it was gone. But Doyle knew it was hurt, and misery. 

_Oh, God, I said the wrong thing. He thinks I don’t ..._

But he couldn’t un-say it now. He couldn’t backtrack, not during an assignment, the night before its most dangerous part. It was too complicated, and if his words didn’t come out right he could make things worse between them, compromise the op.

Doyle gave Bodie the most reassuring smile he could manage. He stepped up close, tangled his fingers in the hair at the back of Bodie’s head, and kissed him full on the mouth. It was a good few seconds before Bodie started kissing him back, but when he did, it was hard and demanding: _you’re mine, it said, whether you like it or not,_ and _oh, yes, I am,_ Doyle’s body responded. 

A floorboard creaked outside the door and they sprang from each other’s arms, falling back into chairs just before the door opened. Draper walked in with Haley behind him. With innocent expressions, Doyle and Bodie stood up to greet the newcomer.

‘Sorry about all that,’ Draper said. ‘Doyle, this is an old friend of mine from school. Owen Haley. Bodie, you remember Hal.’

 _‘Remember_ him?’ Bodie grinned, and walked forward with his arms outstretched. He and Haley clasped arms, then embraced.

‘Bodie,’ Haley greeted him. ‘You're looking good.’

‘So are you,’ said Bodie, holding Haley at arm’s length and examining him. ‘How are you, mate, are you OK?’

Haley seemed surprised at the question, then he laughed, as if he understood. ‘Yes, Bodie, I’m fine now. Thanks for asking. It took a while.’

‘You’re in the navy?’

Haley nodded. ‘Yes, a lieutenant.’

‘His service is almost up,’ said Draper, flashing Haley a grin, which he returned.

‘As is yours, I hear,’ said Haley. ‘We’ll have to get together and celebrate.’

‘Jon?’ Bodie said. ‘Can I have a word?’

‘Sure.’ Draper gave Haley’s shoulder a quick squeeze, then waved Bodie out of the room, leaving Doyle and Haley alone. Doyle nodded at Haley, who responded with a polite, rather guarded, close-lipped smile.

‘You’re CI5?’ Haley asked. Doyle nodded. ‘It’s — Doyle?’

‘Yeah. Ray.’ Doyle held out his hand, and Haley shook it.

‘Well, as you heard, no one calls me Owen.’

‘I remember a Hal in Shakespeare,’ said Doyle.

‘Yeah, that’s where Jon got it from,’ said Haley. ‘He was always a complete swot where English was concerned. So was Bodie, come to that, although I bet he wouldn’t admit that now.’

‘Oh, I got it out of him, eventually,’ Doyle said, with a slight quirk of his lips.

‘How long have you two worked together?’

‘About two and a half years.’

‘Ah, you’ll know each other well, then. That’s good. You probably need to, to watch each other’s backs.’

‘We’ve always been pretty good at that,’ Doyle said.

‘Ray,’ Haley said, taking a step closer to Doyle. ‘You will look after Jon, won’t you?’

‘It’s our job,’ Doyle answered, with a shrug. ‘We’ll do everything we can to keep him alive.’

Bodie and Draper came back into the room then. Draper went straight to Haley, and hugged him from behind. Haley gave him a startled look, but he didn’t pull away.

‘Doyle guessed,’ Draper explained. ‘It’s OK, Hal. We can trust him.’

‘Oh.’

Haley reddened, but he smiled through the blush. He gave Doyle a grateful nod, then leaned his head back against Draper’s. Draper put his mouth to Haley’s ear. Doyle saw his lips form the words ‘Love you.’ He couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy.

‘Tea?’ Draper asked then.

‘Great,’ said Bodie.

‘Please,’ said Doyle.

Draper steered Haley into the kitchen. Doyle joined Bodie on the couch, and asked him the question he'd been dying to ask since he'd left him alone with Draper that afternoon: ‘Did you tell him about us?’

‘No!’ Bodie looked offended. ‘As if I would, without asking you first!’

‘But you told him we both know about them. Just now, I mean.’

‘Seemed only fair,’ said Bodie. ‘Besides, it means they’ll disappear into the bedroom before too long, and we’ll get _our_ possible last night without being disturbed.’ He gave Doyle his most winning smile. Doyle arched an eyebrow, but he couldn’t resist Bodie any more than, it seemed, Draper and Haley could resist each other. He smiled back.

‘We could tell them, though,’ said Bodie. ‘They’d never betray us. For one thing, they wouldn’t dare, with what we know about them. For another, they’re old friends.’

‘I’m not going to _announce_ it, Bodie,’ Doyle protested. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say!’

‘Alright, I’ll tell them.’ Bodie stood up. Doyle caught his arm.

‘You can’t just go in there!’

‘Oh, they ought to be used to me walking in on them by now,’ Bodie said airily. He entered the kitchen with a quick preemptive knock at the door. For the next few minutes, Doyle heard nothing but the roar of the electric kettle, and some faint, incomprehensible muttering. Then came the familiar sound of spoons clinking against mugs. Then, the three of them appeared with the tea. Bodie handed Doyle his mug, and sat down beside him. Haley and Draper took the other couch.

Draper jumped in after one sip. ‘Bodie tells us you’re something of an informal item, Doyle. And that you’re alright about us knowing.’

Doyle smiled. ‘He says we can trust you — I believe him.’

‘Well, you can believe one thing: we won’t say a _word_ to Cowley. Fucking hell. I don’t envy you working for that conniving old bastard.’

‘Cowley’s alright,’ Doyle snapped. He was surprised at how defensive he felt at Draper’s words, when he himself had called his boss much worse things. ‘He’s the best man I’ve ever worked for.’

‘Yeah, he’s not as bad as all that, Jon,’ said Bodie, in more measured tones. ‘Not to us, anyway. Frustrating as hell, sometimes, but he’ll see us right. It’s different, you know, when you’re one of his own men.’

‘I’m sure,’ Draper said, in a voice that made it very clear he wasn’t.

‘You’ve got to understand,’ Haley put in. He placed his cup on the coffee table that sat between the two couches, and shifted closer to Draper, putting his arm around him. Abandoning his own cup, Draper hugged Haley around the waist, rested his head against his neck. ‘Say what you like about Jon’s past, and I know Cowley saved him, and he’s doing the same now, bringing you two in. We’ve got to be grateful for that. But _everyone_ he’s worked for, _including_ Cowley, has treated him like shit. Merely because they can. Because they know he’s got no choice but to obey them. I call that low.’

Bodie only frowned, but Doyle’s principles, as they so often did, overrode his personal loyalties. He nodded at Haley. ‘I agree. But at least it’s your last assignment, right?’

‘Hmm?’ Draper had been gazing up at Haley, who gave him a fond smile and ruffled his hair.

‘Last assignment,’ Haley prompted.

‘Yes,’ said Draper. His eyes lit up with determination. ‘If I live through this I’ll be shot of them forever. Every man jack of ‘em. That’s one thing about Cowley — I do trust him for that. He’ll let me go.’

‘But will everyone else?’ Bodie, still frowning, asked.

‘Don’t frown so much,’ said Draper. ‘You’ll end up like me.’ He pointed to the line between his eyebrows.

‘I think it adds character,’ Haley said loyally.

‘We’re leaving the country, just to make sure,’ said Draper, with a conspiratorial look at Haley. ‘We’re thinking Geneva, right? Boat on the lake ...’ 

He trailed off dreamily. Haley answered him with a smile that, for all the love in it, did not exactly ooze confidence.

‘If they _let_ you leave, with what you know,’ Bodie said cynically.

‘That’s what I said, Bodie!’ Haley agreed, looking from his lover to Bodie and back again. ‘With any luck, Jon’ll be out of this in twenty-four hours. My service isn’t up till July. I tried to give notice twelve months ago, but my Powers That Be said no. They couldn’t see what difference four months would make, and I sure as hell couldn’t tell them. I told Jon to get out as soon as the op’s over, but he won’t go.’

‘Last time I left the country we didn’t see each other for five years,’ Draper argued. ‘I’m not risking that happening again. I’ll be _here_ when you get back, Hal, and we’ll leave together.’

‘And what if they have you killed?' Haley had turned more fully in his seat and was staring Draper down in a way that, Doyle surmised, might get anyone else punched in the face. 'That’s pig-headed stupidity, Jon, and you know it. If you won’t go without me I’ll have to leave with you.’

‘You’ll ruin your career,’ muttered Draper.

‘My career’s already over!’ Haley’s eyes were shining; he was high on a wave of epiphany. He took Draper by the shoulders. ‘My captain might care about four months, but I bloody don’t! The _only_ thing I care about is you, Jonny. I only signed on in the first place because I thought you were never coming back. I should’ve left years ago. I should’ve been the one going on ahead, setting up home, waiting for you. I don’t know why I didn’t!’

‘You told me you wanted to see it through to the end,’ Draper told him. He stroked his thumb across Haley’s cheek. ‘We agreed we’d see everything through. Rise above it. Leave with a clear conscience.’

‘At the expense of your life?’ Haley gave Draper a sharp shake. ‘That’s madness! Jon. My love, listen to me. What do you think about us going now? We could, you know. They wouldn’t expect it. We’re not planning to come back, are we — and if we never come back, what difference will it make?’

‘Hal, are you insane?’ Bodie demanded, as Haley got to his feet, eyes focused on Draper, again, as if he were the only other person in the room.

‘I’ve got a bag packed. I hired a car to get here. We could be on a ferry tonight. Who’d know?’

‘Hal, sit down,’ Draper muttered. He tugged at Haley’s hand. _‘Please.’_

It seemed to be the desperation in his voice that changed Haley’s mind. He sat down heavily, head in his hands.

‘Hal, I’m begging you,’ Draper said, turning to him, but not touching him. ‘Don’t say things like that. I’m frightened enough to do it. But I know if I do, it won’t be a clean slate. I’ll live the rest of my life in the shadow of the last seventeen years. And knowing you ended your career for me, in disgrace ... I’d rather die tomorrow.’

‘Don’t!’

Haley’s head and body had shot upright. His eyes were full of fear and fury.

‘We have to do the honourable thing,’ Draper urged.

‘Honour! They don’t _deserve_ it, Jonny! God, I tell you, this is my father’s doing, it’s no dishonour of yours, or mine. We’ve spent our youth atoning for _his_ sins. _His_ lies. His — his fucking _oppression.’_

‘If it hadn't been for Father Gerald Thompson, we’d’ve beaten him.’ Draper murmured.

‘At least he _paid_ for what he did!’ Haley spat. ‘My father got off scot free.’

Doyle tried to catch Bodie’s eye — even taking his abuse into account, was this normal talk for such an apparently gentle man, justifying brutal murder so easily? Wishing similar treatment on his own father? But Bodie was watching his friends too intently to pay Doyle any mind. 

‘Alright, I’ll make a deal with you,’ Haley said. ‘You go and do it, Jon. Do your final Hail Mary, as it were. Absolve yourself. Then _go_ to Europe without me, make us a home in Geneva, or anywhere, and in four months, I’ll come to you.'

'He's right,' said Bodie. Draper's eyes flicked briefly in his direction, then back to Haley again.

‘But if you die,’ Haley added, in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, ‘I shan’t wait around helplessly for the end of my life. I’ll go to the old man. I’ll kill him.’ Haley made his finger and thumb into a gun shape, and stared at it thoughtfully. Draper looked shocked, and opened his mouth to argue, but Haley cut him off: ‘Don’t worry, I’ll kill him quickly. Then I’ll turn the gun towards myself ...’ he pointed the ‘gun’ at his own right temple, apparently oblivious to the horror that came into Draper’s face ‘... and just end it. Quickly, quietly as possible ... silencer on ... _one squeeze ...’_

The tip of his fingernail touched his temple. Draper sobbed out loud, grabbed hold of his hand, and gripped it tight. He hooked his other arm around Haley’s head and pressed his lips to his cheek. Haley gave a weak, apologetic smile.

'Sorry.' His eyes took in Bodie and Doyle as well as Draper.

'Don't apologise,' said Draper, smoothing his hair. 'You're as entitled to hysteria as I am. You've been so patient all these years.'

Haley pulled away from him. _'Patient?'_

'You just need to give me one, maybe two more days. I won't let you down.'

'Don't talk as if you can help it!'

'You just implied I could.'

'Well, I was wrong. Christ. I can't believe what I said ... I've just realised what it sounded like.'

'It sounded,' said Draper, 'like my life means as much to you as yours does to me. Far as my life goes — I've never wanted much else.'

Haley hunched over and covered his face again.

'But you're entitled to more,' Bodie said. 'You two deserve a future. And we're here to help you get there, right, Ray?'

'Right,' said Doyle, more for solidarity than actual agreement.

 _At least Draper has a good reason to succeed,_ he thought. _Even if he is off his rocker, he'll keep his head for Haley's sake. We might make it through tomorrow alive._

'Thanks,' Draper said.

'And you're right,' Haley added, raising his head from his hands. 'Jon needs to see this through.’ Draper nodded agreement, but he shot Haley a look of concern that Haley didn’t seem to register. He was twisting his hands in his lap, and staring at them.

‘Good,’ said Bodie. He turned to Doyle, touched his fist lightly to his arm. ‘I need a quick word.’ To Haley and Draper, he said: ‘We’ll leave you to it for a bit, OK?’

Doyle followed Bodie out of the room, agreeing with the move. The argument, although personal, had direct bearing on their assignment, and was therefore very much their business. But now, with Haley about to lose it — and, unlike his lover, unwilling to do so in front of other people — it was definitely time to go. And Doyle had his own concerns to raise with his partner, who was clearly too emotionally involved to see the danger posed by Draper’s state of mind: worse, his dependence on Haley, who seemed just as mentally volatile. 

Doyle thought back to the Patterson assassination case, where CI5 had found itself cast in the role of witness protection. He thought of Tommy McKay — how uncomfortable Bodie had felt at the prospect of working with someone so unbalanced. Doyle felt that way now. And he could see no possibility that Draper would stick his neck out for them, the way Tommy had. Draper was out for himself. He had no loyalty to CI5. He might have had an affection for Bodie, but he seemed to have a matching dislike for Cowley.

 _I don’t like it,_ Doyle thought. _I had a bad feeling even before I met Jon Draper. He’ll see us all dead if it means he can keep that pretty boy of his._

Bodie closed the door behind them, and then led Doyle into the bedroom. When that door, too, was safely closed, Doyle let rip.

‘You turning sentimental or something?’ Doyle couldn’t keep the accusatory edge out of his question. ‘We’re not doing this job so your mates can waltz off into the sunset, we’re following orders. Cowley’s orders. Remember that, Bodie.’

‘Oh, and you’ve _never_ got emotionally involved in a case. Raymond Doyle, supercop — make that bleeding heart extraordinaire.’

‘I never said I was perfect,’ Doyle snapped. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, this isn’t about me. I just want to make sure you know what we’ve got ourselves into here. They’re not the kids you remember, Bodie, they’re grown men, and from what I can see, they’re both fucking unhinged! Or have you forgotten what Draper was like this afternoon? He’s not going to have his _true love’_ — he spat out the term with a mocking spite — ‘holding his hand tomorrow. If he loses his nerve he could put us in real danger. And Haley’s not going to make him any better by being here, because he’s just as crazy as Draper is!’

‘That’s not true, Ray,’ Bodie answered, with an air of superior knowledge, not to mention one of unflappability, that made Doyle want to hit him. ‘I’ll admit that Draper comes unstuck now and again; he’s always been like that, and I don’t think Sigmund Freud himself could have cured him. But Hal’s a pillar of sanity, usually. He’s just scared out of his wits that he’s going to lose the man he loves. Surely we can forgive him for that.’

Doyle rolled his eyes and bared his teeth. The romanticism in Bodie’s argument only made him closer to losing his temper — how could his lone wolf partner be so stupidly impractical?

‘How do you know what he’s _usually_ like?’ he retorted. ‘You were _kids_ the last time you saw each other. Unless you’re lying to me. Which you’d better not be, Bodie.’

He became aware of having assumed an aggressive posture, as if they were going to spar. Bodie’s stance, too, subtly changed, and he moved a little closer, meeting the challenge.

‘I’m not _lying_ to you,’ Bodie snapped. Doyle realised with satisfaction that he had provoked that sense of honour Bodie wasn’t supposed to have. But then his tone changed, placating rather than aggravating. ‘It just doesn’t feel like fifteen years, that’s all. When I saw them both — it was just as if we were coming back to school after the summer holiday. They’re Jon and Hal, and that’s all there is to it. Haven’t you ever felt like that?’

‘No,’ Doyle shot back. ‘Because to be honest, Bodie, there isn’t a moment of my childhood I’d ever want to revisit. Not a single living face I’d ever want to see again. Frankly, I’m surprised you don’t feel the same way.’

‘I did,’ Bodie said flatly, placing his hands on his hips in a theatrical display of defiance for which Doyle could have beaten or fucked him with equal enthusiasm. But I’ll be damned if I’ll give him the satisfaction of either. ‘I’m dealing with it, if that’s alright with you.’

Doyle threw up his hands and turned away. There was no arguing with Bodie when he was in this mood. But he couldn’t make himself storm out. Not that he was turning sentimental himself: for Christ’s sake, _one_ of them had to be sensible. But there were two men in the next room who, after two decades of devotion to one another — and, apparently, two decades of hope for some kind of life together — were facing the fear of mortal separation. A fear Bodie and Doyle faced constantly. Tonight included.

The difference was that Haley and Draper showed their feelings. It didn’t mean they felt things more. Doyle knew that. But did Bodie?

He turned back to his partner. He tried to soften his expression, unwilling to part badly from Bodie even for a few minutes on a night like this.

‘I’m going down to get our sleeping gear,’ he muttered. 

‘I’ll help,’ Bodie said. _Generous despite everything, damn him,_ Doyle thought. 

‘No, no. One of us should stay in the flat, you know, just in case. Look, I might be a few minutes, OK? I need some air.’

‘Why not go and get some food, then? I’m starving, and I bet Hal hasn’t eaten any more than we have.’

‘Yeah, alright.’ Doyle grinned. ‘Trust you to get out of taking your turn at catering duty.’

‘Hey, I will go _willingly_ if you so wish.’

‘Nah. I’ll see you in a bit.’

‘Take care of yourself, Ray.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

Doyle gave Bodie a light punch in the arm by way of a goodbye, then walked out of the bedroom and shut the door. Through the closed door of the living room, he could hear the muffled sounds of a man crying, and another attempting to soothe him. Doyle couldn’t tell which voice was which: nor did he particularly care at the moment. 

_They’re as idiotic as each other._

He swallowed, checked the safety on his gun, and left the flat. He took the stairs quickly, and sighed with relief when he got outside. He opted to walk down to the shops rather than taking his car. He went for Indian, this time, rather than Chinese. Bodie liked both, and Doyle doubted that Haley and Draper would even notice what they were eating.

Despite enjoying the fresh air, Doyle did not dawdle. He worried all the time he was out. When he got back, the butterflies that surfaced in his stomach during the ten seconds between him pressing the buzzer and Bodie answering were irritating in the extreme. He blamed Draper. That look on his face when Haley had speculated about his own death ... Doyle did not appreciate seeing the reflection of his own, almost constant, yet largely unexpressed fears for the life of his partner — his lover — stark and unhidden in the pretty brown eyes of a man he hardly knew.

Doyle didn’t know what thought was worse: that Bodie saw the appeal of those eyes, that man, as clearly as he did, or that Bodie might see Draper, the romantic, with all his outward displays of emotion, as the epitome of an ideal lover.

 _No,_ he thought, as he climbed the stairs to Draper’s flat, with half the sleeping gear under one arm, and the smell of curry in his nostrils. _The worst thought is that we could all die before I have the chance to sort this out._


	18. Chapter 18

When Doyle re-entered the flat, the living room door was open. Someone was moving around in the bathroom; someone else was in the kitchen.

'Did you manage everything?' Bodie asked. Doyle shook his head.

'I'll get the rest.'

He gave Doyle a one-armed hug, and nipped out the front door, just as Draper emerged from the bathroom: a slight figure with red-rimmed eyes and hair damp at the front from where he'd obviously washed his face. He nodded at Doyle, with an awkward grimace. Doyle nodded back.

'Been out again? Thanks, Doyle. Where's your partner?'

'He's getting the rest of our gear. We've been forgetting it all afternoon.'

'OK — well, if you need any extra pillows or blankets or anything, the airing cupboard's in the bathroom. Help yourselves.'

'Thanks.'

'I think Hal and I'll probably go straight to bed after dinner,' said Draper. 'Maybe you and Bodie should get an early night too. _Chez moi est chez vous.'_

'Again — thanks.'

Draper smiled again, nudged Doyle's shoulder gently with his fist, and took the food into the living room, while Doyle carried in his half of the gear. The door buzzed then, and he went back out to let Bodie in. Feeling he ought to reciprocate somewhat, affection-wise, he pursed his lips for a quick kiss. Bodie obliged him.

None of them managed to eat much that night. Haley, also a little red-eyed, made a couple of attempts at conversation with Bodie — 'sorry to hear about Adams,' and 'do you remember so-and-so from school?' but on the whole, they didn't talk much either. Draper and Haley held hands throughout the meal. 

Doyle understood the tension: a heady combination of fear, and of wanting. With the unexpected license to do what they normally couldn't on 'babysitting' assignments, all Doyle wanted was to be alone with his partner. But they'd had sex only that morning. For Haley and Draper, it had been over a year. Nearly two, in fact. Doyle had never gone that long without sex — not since he'd started doing it. And it wasn't just sex with those two, anyway. It was plain from a mile off that they practically worshipped each other. The separation must have been intolerable.

Doyle tried to consider what a year apart from Bodie would be like. He abruptly realised he couldn't. He could no longer imagine life without his partner. His fingers twitched. He wanted to take Bodie's hand. He nudged him with his foot, instead. Bodie turned and smiled at him, as if he knew what it meant. It felt strange, being in a room with another all-male couple, unusually free to touch or hug or kiss as they wished; and yet, neither of them could bring themselves to do it.

It was about half past nine when Draper kissed Haley's hand, stood up, and wished Doyle and Bodie good night, with a token 'don't worry about the washing-up', and a reminder of where the towels were. He and Haley left the room with their arms around each other's waists. The living room door clicked shut.

'He seems better,' Doyle remarked.

'He is now. Hal told me he was in an awful state. You can imagine how he must be feeling.'

'I suppose.'

'Are you all right?' Bodie asked.

'I will be when this is all over.'

'Come on.' Bodie crossed the room to where their things were piled up, and started to unroll his sleeping bag.

'Shouldn't we do the dishes?' Doyle asked.

'Nope. Come on.'

Bodie was making a bed on the floor with sofa and chair cushions. Doyle remembered doing something of the kind at his grandmother's, when he was a child.

'What, a _good_ childhood memory?' Bodie teased gently, when he recalled this aloud.

'One or two,' admitted Doyle. He helped Bodie open out the sleeping bags and spread them on top of the cushions. Bodie raided Draper's airing cupboard for pillows and blankets.

'They aren't half going at it,' he whispered, when he came back.

'Wouldn't you, after nearly two years?'

'I'll drink to that.'

'Do we have any drink left?'

'Couple of lagers in the fridge.'

They sat together and drank — again, mostly in silence. Then, with his mouth still cold from the lager, and with no preamble but the unzipping of Doyle's jeans, Bodie went down on him. Doyle lay back on their makeshift bed and allowed himself to be transported.

* * * * *

Two alarm clocks went off at five the next morning. Already fully dressed, in case of emergencies, Bodie and Doyle threw off their blankets and set about packing up to leave. They'd done it so many times before, it barely needed conscious thought. Across the sofa cushions, before they put them back, Doyle leaned over and gave Bodie a long, lingering kiss, morning breath and all. He poured every ounce of feeling he had into that kiss, hoping that on some level, Bodie would get the message. When he finally pulled away, Bodie gave him an astonished look, whispered his name, and started all over again.

On his way to the bathroom a few minutes later, Doyle bumped into Draper, bleary-eyed and tousle-headed, wearing a pair of black tracksuit bottoms and the jumper Haley'd had on the night before.

'Alright?' Draper greeted him.

'Morning,' said Doyle. 'Ready for the main event?'

'As I'll ever be.' Draper's pessimism annoyed Doyle, but he bit his tongue, and tried to be reassuring, the way Bodie would have been. 

'You'll be fine.'

Draper swallowed, and answered: 'I hope.' And something inside Doyle snapped.

'No, you _will_ be,' he told Draper, in a low voice. 'You are going to keep your head. Or you will lose it. My partner might have some weird remnant of schoolboy loyalty to you, but _I don't._ You're a _job._ An order. If you go down you're going down alone, and if he gets hurt you'd better fucking hope the Russians get to you before I do.'

Draper arched his eyebrows, and his grin was pure, malicious disbelief. Doyle's fist was up before he'd even thought about it. It met Draper's palm: cool, dry, with a grip of iron. Doyle's eyes met Draper's at the same moment, untold depths of black, or so they looked then. And yet, paradoxically, hellfire burnt there. The heat was almost tangible.

'Don't,' Draper said, in a savage whisper, 'push me.'

He strode past Doyle, into the living room. Doyle heard him say: 'Bodie, mate, can I ask a favour?' as calm and unruffled as could be. Doyle went on into the bathroom, trying to ignore the way his heart was thumping. He showered quickly, put on the change of clothes he'd brought, shaved, and then joined everyone else in the kitchen. Haley and Draper were both fully dressed by this time, and had seemingly exchanged some items of clothing. Draper was making coffee, humming along to Van Morrison on the radio. He treated Doyle as if nothing had happened. Perhaps he'd already forgotten. Who knew, with a man like that?

At a quarter to six, Haley set down his cup in the sink.

'I ...' he began, but Draper grabbed his arm.

'No, not yet! We're leaving at six. Stay till then.’

Haley smiled at him. ‘I’m in no rush to leave. I’ve got forty-eight hours left.’

‘Then you’ll be here when I —’ Draper corrected himself ‘— if I ...’

Haley laid his hands on Draper’s shoulders, and said: _‘When_ you get back, my love, I will be here waiting for you. I just forgot to give you something, that’s all.’

He was out of the room before Draper could say anything else. He came back with a small leather pouch in his hand, and a slightly sheepish smile on his face.

‘I had this made up — it’s a bit of a joke, really. You could wear it under your clothes, if you want to.’

Draper opened the pouch and pulled out a bronze medallion on a chain. He turned it over in his hand. It depicted a Biblical-looking figure on one side, and on the back, there was some lettering. Doyle couldn’t see what.

‘It’s St Joshua,’ explained Haley. ‘Unofficial saint — patron of spies, literature, and writers. I thought he’d suit you. Read the back.’

Draper turned the medallion over and scanned it, running his fingers over the lettering as he did so. Haley watched him. At length, Draper met his gaze, and swallowed. He touched Haley’s cheek, leaned in and kissed him. Haley made a soft sound into his mouth and drew him in closer.

Doyle tried not to stare; it had been a long time since he’d seen two people kiss so passionately. He had forgotten how such a sight charged the atmosphere of a room, how his stomach would clench with longing, not only for the physical but also the emotional intimacy. How badly the sight of a kiss had made him want to love, before love had pulled him in like the sea during a storm, taken him almost against his will, buffeted him, smashed him against the rocks, until finally he lay in peace under the waves, accepting of his fate.

When the kiss was over, Draper stepped back, and handed the medallion to his lover.

‘You do it,’ he said, and bent his head. Haley nodded, and hung the chain around Draper’s neck. Draper tucked it under the jumper and shirt he was wearing. They kissed again, more briefly, and embraced each other. Over Haley’s shoulder, Draper glanced at Bodie and Doyle, and cleared his throat awkwardly, letting go with obvious reluctance. Haley turned around, grimaced, and said: ‘Sorry, you two. Forgot you were there.’

‘It’s OK,’ Doyle said with a grin.

‘Doesn’t bother us,’ Bodie added.

‘For the record, you can do what you like in front of us,’ said Draper, leaning an elbow on Haley’s shoulder. ‘I’m sure Bodie’s dying for revenge, Doyle — we made him keep watch for us at school, probably more times than was strictly decent.’ His smile was that of a schoolboy: full of mischief, and unrepentant. He took his lover’s hand. ‘Hal, come and see how your music shelf’s progressing.’

On that excuse, the pair of them went into the living room. Alone in the kitchen, Bodie and Doyle exchanged an amused glance over their coffee cups. Doyle couldn’t think of anything to say, and it didn’t seem that Bodie could either. ‘Lovely weather we’ve been having’ wasn’t going to pass muster. ‘How much did they do in front of you?’ was a question for another time. Doyle listened: he could hear Draper and Haley reminiscing over the records and tapes: where they’d been when they heard a certain song, what they’d sung along to, what they’d danced to, what they’d made love to.

‘I remember when we fucked to _Jeepster_ in that ancient monument you call a Jag,’ Bodie whispered in Doyle’s ear. ‘My hip still twinges when I think about it.’

 _‘Part_ of me twinges,’ Doyle replied. Bodie chuckled into his coffee. Doyle tuned back into Haley and Draper’s conversation.

‘Thought I might as well,’ Draper was saying. ‘I filled in the last page yesterday afternoon.’

‘You’ve _had_ that all this time?’ Haley’s astounded voice, rough with emotion, floated clearly into the kitchen.

‘Is that Draper’s journal?’ Doyle whispered. Bodie nodded.

‘Not quite,’ Draper answered. ‘When I was coming back west I sent it to Bodie for safe keeping. I knew I’d be searched when Cowley handed me over to MI6, and if their inquisitors had found it — well, you can imagine they might have looked less kindly on brokering a deal with me. And it wouldn’t have been hard to work out who the other protagonist was, and kick him out of his job because he was queer, not to mention consorting with a spy — even one who was turning back to their side. Of course, if I were responsible, rather than a sentimental idiot, I’d’ve burnt it.’

Doyle asked: ‘Is _that_ what you had under the bed?’ Bodie nodded again. Doyle nodded at Bodie, with a slightly admonishing half-smile. Another little piece of mystery solved, then, and trust Bodie to behave as if he were bound by the Official Secrets Act. _Was he_ trying _to make me jealous?_ Doyle wondered, off-handedly at first, but once he’d thought it ...

‘I think I’d rather have you sentimental and dangerous,’ Haley said. ‘Much more heroic.’

Draper laughed. ‘You would say that. Anyway, you’re no different — you wore my ring.’

‘Still do, in case you haven’t noticed. You’re not getting it back.’

Doyle stopped listening. He was lost in thought, wondering about his partner’s strange behaviour. _Had_ Bodie been trying to make him jealous?

 _‘We’re not like Jon and Hal, are we?’_ Bodie had asked: and how hurt he’d appeared when Doyle said no! Their relationship — if it could be called a relationship — had obviously been on his mind. What if he had been using his past friendship with Draper to try and make Doyle stake his claim? _Stupid sod,_ Doyle thought. _What does he want, a marriage proposal? Vow of eternal fidelity? I’d like to see him keep one._

‘I’ve meant for years to give it back to you when I finished it,’ Draper was telling Haley, in the other room. ‘I meant every word for you. I was going to wait until we were safe — ask Bodie to give it to you if I died — but I can’t bear the thought of not putting it into your hands myself. If I live, buy me a new one for my birthday. They’re good value — nearly twenty-one years of wear ...’

Haley uttered a strange sound, half-laugh, half-sob. Then there was silence.

As a clock somewhere in Draper’s flat struck six, Doyle turned off the radio, and Bodie put their cups in the sink. They emerged from the kitchen to see Haley and Draper, still standing by the music shelves, pulling out of a hug.

‘I’ll see you tonight,’ Haley said, raising his eyebrows for emphasis, as if his own determination would make it so.

‘Don’t say goodbye yet.’

Bodie picked up his half of the gear. Doyle picked up the other. Draper took a briefcase from the desk that stood in one corner of the living room. They all went into the hall. Doyle, Bodie and Draper each put on jackets: Bodie in tan leather, Doyle in his big checked fleece, Draper in a sheepskin thigh-length jacket that swallowed his thin shoulders, as if he’d bought it during less stressful times.

‘We have to say goodbye now, Jon,’ said Haley. ‘We can’t do it downstairs.’

‘We’ll give you a sec,’ said Bodie. He opened the front door, nodded for Doyle to go out first, and they both stepped out onto the landing. They heard nothing except Haley’s voice, half a minute later; an aggressive, shaking sound: _‘Don’t you fucking die. Do you hear me?’_

Draper emerged gradually, looking stricken. He didn’t shut the door completely; he clutched Haley’s hand across the threshold, holding on until the last possible moment. Finally, he let Haley go, and the door closed behind him.

‘Come on,’ Bodie said, in a gentle voice. He put his arm around Draper’s shoulders and led him down the stairs, out into the chilly March morning, grey in the pre-dawn light. Draper was silent, shivering despite his heavy jacket, as Bodie and Doyle loaded their things into the boot of the car, and Bodie put the passenger seat forward so he could get into the back. Side by side in the front of the car, Doyle and Bodie smiled sadly at each other.

 _I think I just read your mind, Bodie,_ Doyle thought, as he started the car and drove off down the quiet street. _Least we’re still together._

* * * * *

As arranged, Doyle dropped Bodie at HQ, at a little after six-thirty. Bodie fetched bullet-proof vests for Doyle and Draper, which they strapped on under their clothes.

‘Not that it’ll help if he goes for the head shot,’ Bodie told Doyle, through the car window. ‘But that’s what I’m there for.’

Doyle smiled, and nodded: he wanted Bodie to know he trusted him implicitly. Bodie nodded back: he did understand, then. Good. 

‘I’ll be in touch when I’m in position. Maintain radio silence until I call you.’ 

Doyle nodded, and Bodie turned away.

‘Bodie,’ he called his partner back. Bodie stuck his head through the window again. Doyle glanced around the car park — it was empty — then gripped Bodie’s jaw roughly in his hand, and kissed him on the mouth.

‘You just watch your back, OK?’

‘Likewise,’ said Bodie. He was grinning as he turned around. Doyle watched him until he was out of sight. Draper joined him in the front, and they drove off towards Southwark. Draper drank gin from a tarnished hip flask, which he periodically offered to Doyle. He didn’t try and make conversation. He was tense, like a coiled spring, but Doyle didn’t get the impression that it was any longer directed at him. Draper reminded him of himself: focused on the job, fear present but banked down. It wasn’t a pleasant atmosphere, but at least their likeness meant quiet.

It was just gone seven-thirty when Bodie’s voice, low and cautious, finally came through via R/T. They had been sitting in the car, out of sight of the rendezvous, for what felt like an age.

‘3.7 to 4.5, over.’

‘4.5 here, go ahead, 3.7.’

‘Set up and ready to go. Good view of the rendezvous point, prepared to give covering fire.’

‘Any sign of the sniper?’

‘Nothing.’

‘That’s something,’ said Doyle. ‘Alright. Maintaining radio silence, bar emergencies.’

‘Roger, 4.5. Look after yourselves.’

‘And you. 4.5 out.’

‘Too neat,’ muttered Draper.

‘Not necessarily,’ replied Doyle. He wasn’t going to play up to Draper’s fears by agreeing with him. Privately, however, he didn’t like it one bit.

‘Don’t overdo that,’ he warned Draper, as he took another sip from his flask.

‘I’ve completed assignments a lot more pissed than this, mate.’

Doyle sighed. ‘Give us another sip, then.’

Draper smiled grimly and handed the flask over.

‘Sun’s getting higher,’ he remarked. ‘In four months I could be watching it rise over Lake Geneva.’

‘Sounds nice,’ said Doyle. ‘So the two of you are going for good?’

‘We hope so,’ said Draper. ‘At least with a boat we’ll be mobile, so if we get bored ...’

‘I wouldn’t mind the itinerant lifestyle meself,’ Doyle admitted.

‘What about Bodie?’

‘Oh, he likes his home comforts too much. Says he’s travelled enough for a lifetime.’

‘You should see the boat we’ve got our eyes on. Talk about home comforts. Bodie wouldn’t know what hit him. When we’re all settled, you two should hire one. Come and see us.’

Doyle tried not to look wistful at the thought of a break like that, and forced himself to face reality. ‘You talk as if we’re as attached as you are.’

‘Aren’t you?’

Doyle opened his mouth to reply, and abruptly realised he didn’t have an answer. It was Bodie’s voice that saved him, coming in over the R/T. It had a note of urgency in it that made his heart beat faster.

‘4.5. Doyle.’

‘Go ahead, I’m here.’

‘Sniper sighted, roof of warehouse opposite.’

‘Fuck,’ Doyle muttered. Draper bit his lip.

‘I’ve got him covered, over.’

‘Erm — roger, 3.7. Any sign he’s seen you?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, keep out of sight,’ Doyle told him. His words sounded ridiculous in his own ears, and he half-expected Bodie to come out with a sarcastic reply. But all he said was: ‘Will do. Out.’

The world seemed very silent as the dashboard clock crept towards eight. Doyle could hear the ticking of his watch, and Draper’s, but that was all. Finally, at five to eight, Doyle turned the ignition key. The Escort roared into life. Slowly, he drove towards the rendezvous: bombed-out, abandoned docks, and no one around for miles. There could have been no more ideal a place for a secret meeting.

‘There,’ said Draper. Doyle looked. across an expanse of grey concrete, built up on both sides with old warehouses, and in the distance, water lapped against the man-made shore. One of the warehouses had a hole in the roof, large enough to be seen from below, but a great deal of it was still intact. Plenty of places for a sniper to hide. The other warehouse, on their left, was relatively undamaged. Where Bodie was, where the sniper was — it was impossible to tell.

Doyle and Draper looked at each other, and both got out of the car. Doyle fingered his gun. Draper, he knew, was also armed. Probably in ways that wouldn't have occurred to most other people.

_Bodie might have conveniently forgotten that Draper was a professional hitman, but I haven't._

Doyle looked sideways at the man beside him, wondered at his appearance. He was undeniably attractive. But he wasn't a man like Bodie, who would be stunning in any guise. Give a man an aura of danger and suffering and he radiated sex. But imagine him as a stockbroker, or an accountant — that was a test few men would pass. How might Draper have looked, if he had taken a different direction in his youth? Cut off the unkempt hair, dress him in a business suit, put a few more pounds on his figure — he'd still have a nose as fine as that of a Graeco-Roman sculpture, and eyes you could drown in, but would his stare be so intense over less gaunt cheeks? Less haunted, less full of desperate hope, if he'd led a normal life?

'D'you think you'd be any different if you'd just finished school and got what parents call a normal, proper job?' he muttered to Draper.

'How often d'you ask _yourself_ that question?' Draper muttered back.

'Every time I take a life.'

‘Heh. You’re lucky. I’m way past that sort of guilt.’ He glanced at Doyle. ‘You’re asking me to define “normal”. We barely know each other, Doyle, but there’s one thing I know we have in common. We could both have grown up into the drabbest, most run-of-the-mill, middle-class, suburban tosspots, but we’d still be queer.’

Doyle smiled grimly, but he didn’t answer. About twenty yards away, a man was approaching, flanked by two bodyguards. He and Draper began to walk forward. They walked in tense silence until they came within twenty feet of the three men. 

The one in the middle was small, dark-haired, balding, skinny everywhere but his belly. He walked like a man handsomer than he was. Doyle had the impression of someone who’d have women flocking around him, for his personality and money-making ability rather than his looks. He was the sort who hung around gaming tables, surrounded by cigarette smoke and girls in shimmering dresses. His eyes were small and cruel. He wore a heavy overcoat, which hung open to reveal an expensive-looking suit underneath. He carried a briefcase much like Draper’s. 

‘Draper,’ he said curtly, in greeting.

‘Robson.’

‘Who’s your friend?’

‘My driver,’ said Draper. Robson threw his head back and laughed. He asked: ‘You still don’t know how to drive?’

‘Never really found it necessary.’

‘You married?’

‘Good as.’

‘I hope she’s a good driver. Few enough women are.’

‘It’s not a problem that particularly concerns me,’ Draper said shortly. ‘What about you, Harv? House in the suburbs, two point four kiddies, is it?’

‘You line up all the kids from Monte Carlo to Moscow, mate. You’d be surprised how many look like me.’

‘I don’t think “surprised” is the word I’d use.’

Robson’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t answer. Draper gave an affected sigh. He opened his briefcase — holding it out so Robson could see there was no trick — and took out a file: a slim sheaf of paper in a plain, unmarked manila folder.

‘Let’s skip the pleasantries. I’ve got what you asked for.’

‘Come forward, then,’ Robson ordered. ‘Alone.’

‘If you do likewise.’

Robson nodded. He began to walk forward. Draper put down his briefcase at Doyle’s feet, and started towards Robson, carrying the file. They met in the middle of the space between Doyle and the bodyguards. Doyle was willing himself not to glance upwards. Draper could not have been more exposed at that moment. He realised it, too: his body was rigid with tension. He walked like a condemned man. Doyle knew terror when he saw it. He thought of Haley, alone in the flat; he watched Draper; he thought of himself and Bodie, and swallowed hard.

Draper handed over the file. Robson put it into his briefcase. The two men began to back away from each other. The bodyguards were alternately watching them, and glowering at Doyle. Doyle glowered back. Men like that didn’t bother him. Little rats like Robson always chose big, ungainly blokes to flank them, the sort who could look menacing and hit hard. Doyle wasn’t exactly a small man himself, but he was wiry, flexible, fast. And unlike most bouncer types, he could shoot straight.

Draper and Robson were moving slowly apart. Doyle saw Draper’s hands, clenching and releasing, over and over. His feelings were transparent. Every fibre of him was aware of the sniper somewhere above him. Every instinct was screaming at him to turn and run for cover. It was only by a monumental effort of will that he did not.

He was about halfway back to Doyle when the shot rang out.


	19. Chapter 19

Doyle opened his eyes, and knew pain. A pair of blue eyes were looking at him. They didn’t look quite right, but perhaps nothing did, when you had a headache like this.

‘Bodie,’ he murmured.

‘He’ll be here later,’ said a voice near him: a soft, well-spoken, vaguely familiar voice. It belonged to the eyes. Doyle tried to make himself focus. After a few seconds, a face swam into view. It might not have been Bodie’s, but there were worse sights in the world to wake up to.

‘Haley.’

Doyle tried to sit up. Haley put out an arm to restrain him. In his other hand, Doyle noted, was Draper’s journal.

‘Don’t try and move. You’ve got concussion.’

Doyle frowned, but that only made his headache worse.

‘How long have I been here?’

‘About eight hours,’ said Haley. ‘It’s’ — he checked his watch — ‘just gone five o’clock. Do you remember what happened, Ray?’ 

Doyle closed his eyes.

_The shot rings out over the rooftops. Robson stops, and smirks ... Draper jumps, ducks his head. Straightens. They’re both unscathed. Doyle looks up, and around ... sees nothing. Fear stabs at him. Where is Bodie? Who shot whom?_

‘The sniper,’ he murmured.

_‘You little rat, Draper. You brought a friend.’_

_‘No more than you did.’_

_‘Who’s he with, then? Special Branch?’_

_‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’_

‘Special Branch were meant to turn up.’

‘They never did, though,’ said Haley. ‘Bodie said he couldn’t see anyone for miles. Whole thing was a setup.’

‘Is Bodie alright?’

‘Bodie’s fine. He got the sniper square between the eyes before he could fire a shot. For God’s sake, Doyle, you’re the one who was shot in the head.’

‘What?’ 

Startled, Doyle sat up properly that time, in spite of the pain. He put a hand to his head. It was thickly bandaged.

‘The bullet didn’t penetrate. It grazed you, knocked you backwards. You hit your head on the ground when you fell.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Bodie said there was a firefight,’ Haley said. His voice shook, and he took a few breaths to bring himself under control. ‘After Robson realised his man on the roof was dead, he and his bodyguards pulled out their guns. He was yelling up at the roofs ...’

‘I remember that,‘ said Doyle.

_‘Oi! You up there! Whoever you are! You can’t shoot all of us at once! If you fire that gun again your friends are dead men! Throw down your gun. Surrender.’_

_There is a long moment of silence. Then, from the roof on the left, another shot rings out. One of Robson’s bodyguards falls. Robson and the other man open fire. Three more men come running from inside the warehouse._

‘He had more men,’ said Doyle. ‘We ran for cover. Bodie came down to help. They shot at him. I tried ...’ He trailed off as a wave of pain and nausea swept over him.

Haley nodded. ‘Bodie said he ducked round the side of the building. You took aim at the man who’d shot at him, but Robson got you first; you fell backwards and went still, so he must have thought you were dead. Bodie yelled at Jon to join him; Jon ran, but the other bodyguard shot him in the hip. Robson got to him before Bodie could. He was going to kill Jon straightaway, but Bodie yelled no, that they could make a deal. Robson hesitated. Then he asked who Bodie worked for. Bodie said CI5. That seemed to change Robson’s mind — he said he’d be in touch. He said he’d kill Jon outright if Bodie didn’t give Cowley the message. He mentioned Cowley by name. Robson must think he can get something out of him.’

‘Because of Cowley’s history with the secret service?’

‘I suppose so,’ Haley agreed. ‘Jon knew Cowley’s name when he worked for the KGB. Why not Robson?’

‘So they took Draper. Where?’

‘Bodie just saw them retreat into the warehouse. He was more worried about you by then, I think. He put you in the car, and ... here you are.’

‘Where is Bodie, now?’

‘At your headquarters. He was here, but Cowley called him back. I think they must have heard something. Bodie said he’d come back or call as soon as he knew.’

‘Where’s Draper, now?’

‘With them.’ Haley swallowed. ‘Bodie thinks they’ll keep their word, make a deal. What worries me is that Cowley won’t deal with them.’

‘Cowley won’t just let him die,’ Doyle said.

‘Everyone else Jon’s worked for wants him dead,’ Haley muttered, looking at the floor. ‘Why should Cowley be any different?’

‘Because Cowley _is_ different,’ Doyle said firmly. ‘Besides which, he answered Draper’s call for help, didn’t he? He assigned us to protect him.’

‘I suppose so.’ Haley’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. ‘Don’t blame me for getting a little paranoid.’

Doyle tried to shake his head, but that hurt, so he settled for a reassuring smile, and said: ‘I appreciate you being here. I would’ve gone crazy, waking up with no one to tell me what was going on.’

‘I know.’ Haley looked closely at him, as if trying to analyse his feelings. It wasn’t as unsettling as when Draper did it. Haley’s presence was friendlier, less intimidating. But he also exhibited a kind of desperation, a need for reassurance. Doyle noticed for the first time how stressed he looked. He was very pale, and there were dark shadows under his eyes. They were slightly swollen, too, as if they had shed tears some time ago. They seemed very large as Haley searched Doyle’s face. 

‘Bodie thinks they’re holding Jon down at the docks,’ he said. ‘If they make a deal, he’s going to be with Cowley as backup, in case things turn ugly. Ray — are you as terrified as I am?’

Doyle met Haley’s eyes. It wasn’t just reassurance he was looking for; it was commonality of purpose. Doyle almost blanched when he realised what he was actually being asked. Yet — did it matter? Surely if there was anyone who would understand, anyone in whom it was alright to confide, it was this man.

‘Yeah,’ he said, after a few seconds’ deliberation. ‘I reckon I probably am.’

He saw Haley process this information. He gave a slight nod. Then his expression turned to one of frustration, and he sighed. He said, just louder than a whisper: ‘Then you know how I feel. I might as well have a head wound for all the good I can do. I shouldn’t even _be_ here. Jon’s told me over and over again that we can’t be seen together or even associated with each other while he’s still working for the government. If they found out about us it’d give them even more of an excuse to destroy him.’

‘Less questions asked in high places afterwards, you mean?’

Haley nodded.

‘Well, I wouldn’t worry,’ Doyle told him. ‘You and Bodie were friends at school. Who’s to say you can’t still be friends? In which case you’d have met me, his partner. You’re just a mate coming to see a mate in hospital.’

‘Any other mates allowed?’

Doyle turned at the sound of his partner’s voice. Bodie was framed in the doorway, grinning. Doyle grinned back, neither able nor willing to disguise how delighted he was to see him. Bodie came all the way in, taking the chair that Haley wasn’t occupying. Briefly, he clasped Doyle’s hand.

‘Back with us, I see.’

‘Like a bad penny,’ said Doyle.

‘You had me worried for a minute there.’

‘So did you.’

‘I’ll give you two some time,’ said Haley. He smiled at Doyle as he got up, and he patted Bodie’s shoulder on the way out of the room. He closed the door quietly behind him. Bodie sighed into the silence.

‘Have you had any news about Draper?’ Doyle asked.

‘Robson’s got him at the docks. We’ve arranged a meeting for eleven o’clock tonight. Special Branch are, ostensibly, cooperating. They’re swearing blind they were ready to bring Robson in, but held back when the firefight started. For Draper’s own safety, apparently. They thought Robson might kill him outright if he realised the meeting was a setup from our side as well.’

‘But Cowley doesn’t believe them?’

‘He didn’t say as much to me. But he looked mad as hell. He asked me what Draper planned to do when this was over. I said he was getting out of the country. He said: “Good. I don’t like his chances if he stays here.” When I asked him to elaborate he told me to stick to my own part of the case.’

‘So it’s not just Draper being paranoid. They _are_ out to get him.’

‘I think that’s what Cowley believes.’

‘As long as Cowley’s not with them.’

‘Cowley wants Draper on side,’ said Bodie. ‘You know what the old man’s like. He’d love to have a man who’s got the dirt on the other departments. Cowley’s the only one who’s never had him do anything illegal. He said _that_ much to me. “Remember this, Bodie. Everything Draper’s done for CI5 is on the record.” What does that tell you?’

‘That Draper’s more valuable to Cowley alive than dead,’ said Doyle. ‘Trust the old man to have his insurance policy in good old-fashioned paperwork.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole thing’s a double-think,’ said Bodie. ‘I bet Cowley offered Draper up to the other departments on a plate. See who’d bite.’

‘And he made himself Draper’s only way out if things got ugly. Like they have now.’

Bodie nodded. Then he said: ‘Jon won’t have it, you know. If he lives through this he’ll consider his obligations fulfilled. Cowley won’t be able to tempt him back.’

‘Cowley might not have to,’ Doyle said thoughtfully. ‘Surely if Draper’s alive, it’ll be enough.’

‘I hope so, for his sake,’ said Bodie.

* * * * *

The noise of the canteen was too much for Haley. He bought himself a cup of coffee and a sandwich, and retreated to the corridor outside Doyle’s room. There were some hard, plastic seats there. He sat down and tried to eat, but he couldn’t do so now any more than he’d been able to in the morning. Jon had been alive, and beside him, then, and the food had been decent. Sitting alone, with stale bread and plastic cheese, and expecting to feel an appetite, had been overoptimistic. 

He sipped his coffee. At least it was hot. The icy hand that clutched periodically at his heart seemed to pull back for the moment. That was the sort of metaphor Jon would use, but now Haley could see where he’d been coming from all these years. It really did feel like that today. Whenever he’d had cause to be afraid for himself, it had been hot, not cold: burning like venom through his veins, kick-starting his adrenaline, giving him the will to fight, or, when imperative, to run.

_‘Mostly it’s like that for me too, Hal. But sometimes something just grabs hold, and ... I freeze up. Can’t move. It only lasts a second or two, but they’re the worst I’ve ever spent in my life. I think about you and I know I’m letting you down ... my cowardice, ruining our future ... that always gets me going again. So you see, Hal, why you mustn’t feel bad that you can’t be with me? When I thought you were dead it was hatred keeping me alive, but now it’s love. You’ve saved my life more times than I could count.’_

Haley willed himself not to weep again, remembering that conversation. The last tears he’d shed were over Jon’s journal. He’d read of their former happiness; the agony of their separation; the anguish when Jon had thought he was dead: a period for which Haley felt more anger against his father than even what had happened just before — the time he had spent in the institution.

 _I can’t sleep,_ Jon had written in his journal while he was still at school: one of the many entries addressed, with a kind of desperate optimism, to Haley himself. _When I think of what you’re going through — every time I close my eyes all I can see is you hooked up to those machines, screaming in agony while faceless demons in white coats stand over you and ask you questions, tell you what to think and feel. And I am still so terribly selfish, dearest (you see, unlike Tennyson I shan’t be ashamed to call my beloved that, even during his life). I ought to hope that they coax all your queerness out of you. That you forget me. Or just remember me as your friend. That you meet some pretty girl, fall in love and get married. Live a normal life, away from all this confusion and prejudice, and be happy without me. But I can’t. I dream that it happens and I wake up with my heart pounding so hard that I swear the whole dormitory ought to be able to hear. I steal away to the attic and just cry and cry._

_I can only hope that if you’re reading this, it’s years in the future and I’ve filled up the book with happier things, and maybe I’m just in the next room, or we’re lying together in bed, in that bohemian flat of ours, or that pleasure boat you said you’d spend your inheritance on, and if reading what I wrote has brought tears to your eyes, I’m there to kiss them away. Like you did for me when I dreamed about what that devil did to you. Remember, that time we went camping? I can still feel your lips against my cheek ..._

Haley’s memory was exceptionally good. It was what had made him good at learning endless historical dates, Latin and Greek declensions and conjugations, reams of Shakespeare; he didn’t share Jon’s passion for English literature, but he had found the subject easy to cope with. Now it was Jon’s words that circled in his head. He held the journal like a talisman. He had only looked through it the once, but its contents were burnt onto his memory, often word for word. Reading it, he had heard his lover’s voice in his head, talking to him, telling him about his day, recalling times they’d spent together, singing the songs whose lyrics he’d written down, quoting the poems he loved. Most of the verses seemed to be there because they reminded him of Haley, or their relationship. Jon hadn’t been exaggerating when he had given him the journal: Haley was its other protagonist. It brought home to Haley, as if he hadn’t known, just how much, and for how long, Jon’s life, thoughts, hopes and dreams had revolved around him.

He also realised why the book was so dangerous: why Jon had guarded it so carefully. _‘By the time I realised what I’d made it into,’_ he’d said, just before he left that morning, _‘it had become too precious to burn. It was all I had left of us.’_

 _It might be all_ I _have left of us,_ Haley thought. _And I can’t do anything. I just have to sit and wait._

He put his head in his hands, gritted his teeth. The paper cup of coffee stood, half-drunk, beside his right foot. He began to imagine kicking it over accidentally: how the dark liquid would look as it spilled across the cold white hospital floor. How its aroma might permeate the ubiquitous scent of disinfectant. It was when the coffee turned in his mind’s eye to blood that he snatched up the cup and drained it.

He would not return to that half-existence on board ship. He would find a private place, the more sublime and desolate the better — a cave, or a mountaintop, or, better, some grey rocky outcrop by the sea during a storm — stand there like Friedrich’s _Wanderer_ and scream until his throat was raw before he plunged beneath the waves. Until then he would keen his mourning into the pillows of the bed they had too sporadically shared; he would break every dish, every plate, every glass he could find; he would shave the hair from his head and body, relish every cut, every drop of blood ...

Unless the impossible happened. Unless Jon made it through this alive.

How strange, that imagining out an excess of grief, a hysteria more suited to his lover’s character than his own, could be more comforting than recalling Jon’s own last words to him.

 _‘Don’t you fucking die. Do you hear me?’_ Haley had choked out, shaking him even as he held him close. Jon’s reaction had been to draw back from him, to take his face in his hands, and to echo what he had said in a calmer moment: _‘Your existence will save my life.’_

Nonsense, of course: assuming that one’s life depended solely on one’s will to live, when one was being, essentially, hunted down. Romantic, sentimental nonsense, of which Jon was both a lover and a master, and which Haley had learnt to love for his sake. But it had reassured them both.

Footsteps coming down the corridor made Haley sit up and assemble his dignity, all his instinctive reserve coming out as he found himself in the presence of a stranger. The footsteps were irregular: those of a person with a limp. After a moment, the owner came into view. A man, smallish, and middle-aged. Greying red hair and a sensible suit. A man who stood no nonsense, to whom sentimentality was foreign. That was Haley’s first impression. The stranger stopped outside Doyle’s room and peered inside. He did not stop there long. Catching sight of Haley, he frowned as if in recognition, and came towards him.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, in a Scottish accent. ‘But you're Owen Haley, aren’t you? First lieutenant of HMS Alexandra?’

Haley stood. He hoped he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. If this man was who he thought he was, the fact that he recognised him was not necessarily a good thing.

‘Yes, sir,’ he answered.

‘My name is Cowley. I am the Controller of CI5. My organisation has been charged with the protection of your friend, Jonathan Draper.’

Haley took the hand Cowley offered, and shook it. He bit back the accusation that they hadn’t done a very good job so far. He knew that wasn’t true. He trusted Bodie implicitly: Bodie had told him what had happened and his word was good enough.

‘I’m pleased to meet you, sir. Jon’s told me a lot about you.’

‘All good things, I trust?’

‘Mostly, sir.’ Haley had always been a useless liar; he barely bothered to try these days. But Cowley didn’t seem offended by his honesty. He smiled, and said: ‘We have had our clashes, he and I. Such things occur between strong-willed men.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why don’t we sit down? I’d like a word with you.’

Haley took the same seat again, and Cowley joined him, resuming the conversation almost immediately, looking straight ahead rather than at Haley. ‘I understand that you and Draper have been frequently in touch since you were at school together.’

Haley’s stomach clenched: was he as paranoid as Jon, now, or had Cowley put a subtle but detectable emphasis on the word _touch?_

‘We have, sir,’ he replied.

‘Draper has not mentioned your friendship to me, as such,’ Cowley said, in a low, innocuous voice, apparently to the opposite wall. ‘But you have been seen together on various occasions over the past seven years. You must understand, I consider it my business to know the movements of all my men — and Draper has been often in my employ, if not on my _permanent_ staff.’

Haley didn’t answer. His mouth was too dry.

‘I do not consider it a coincidence, Lieutenant, that your friend contacted me to arrange his defection into the West, a matter of weeks after your name appeared in a number of major broadsheets, as a commemorator of the death of his mother. Nor is that fact incompatible with my knowledge that after he was released from our questioning and allowed to return to his father’s house, you were seen arriving at that house and his father leaving it. This change took place over forty-eight hours, after which time you left and his father returned. Nor, Lieutenant Haley, do I consider it a coincidence that you now wear, and have worn for some time, the signet ring that is visible on Draper’s left little finger in several photographs from his youth. Or, indeed, that he murdered your English teacher, who had been removed from his previous post for committing acts of sexual abuse towards his young male pupils, a mere few months after you were confined to a psychiatric institution on your father’s instigation — I do not think I need to state the reason outright.’

At Cowley’s final insinuation, anger took over from fear. Haley felt himself tense. He willed himself to keep his temper. Taking care to speak as softly as Cowley had, and also looking towards the wall, Haley said: ‘If you’re suggesting, Mr Cowley, that the tendencies for which my father had me committed only manifested themselves after the arrival of that particular teacher at our school, I’m afraid you’re sadly mistaken. And if you mean to insinuate that my friend took advantage of me in any way ...’

‘I’m insinuating nothing of the kind,’ Cowley replied evenly. ‘I can only assume that Father Thompson threatened to expose your relationship if you reported his behaviour, which probably stopped you expressing your feelings for one another at school. This would then have led to some carelessness in your behaviour when Draper was staying at your home, and your father walked in on you. Draper probably blamed Thompson for your suffering in the institution, and when he heard that another friend had been abused, he lost his reason.’

Haley turned to Cowley in surprise. ‘Who told you all this?’ he demanded.

‘No one,’ Cowley said, in the same quiet, serene voice. ‘I put together puzzles for a living, Haley. It’s no coincidence, is it, the timing of Bodie’s running away from school?’

Haley’s head drooped. ‘No, sir,’ he muttered.

‘I don’t believe for a minute that Draper took advantage of you. He killed Thompson out of love for you and revenge for another close friend. And it’s quite clear that you shared his feelings. Every photograph I have ever seen of the two of you demonstrates it plainly, if one has a mind to look for it — which, in the interests of security, I have. I ask you now — also in the interests of security — whether the relationship between you still exists.’

‘I don’t think you need my answer,’ Haley said, still looking at the floor. ‘I think you know already.’

‘I would like your honest affirmation.’

Haley looked up. ‘And if I do say yes? What will you do?’

‘If you think that by answering me you’re endangering Draper’s life, I can assure you that you’re wrong. I have a general feeling in favour of individual freedom that overrides my more personal feelings on this subject, provided that it poses no threat to my organisation — which, since Draper is _not_ a permanent member of my staff, it need not do as long as discretion is exercised. Aside from which, Draper is far too valuable an asset for any prejudices of mine to sway my will to keep him alive. Moreover, I gave him my word that I would do so. I give you the same now. But I must insist that you give me an answer.’

Haley clutched at his hair. _If he’s not using the information against us,_ he thought, _then why does he want it so badly? What the hell’s he going to do? Christ, Jonny, what do I do? How can I lie to him? He’ll know I’m lying, and that’ll be bad enough — but if I tell the truth, what then?_

‘My answer is yes,’ he replied at length. ‘The relationship still exists.’

‘Then for his safety and yours,’ Cowley said, ‘get out of here now, Lieutenant. Your presence in this hospital so far can be explained away quite plausibly by the existence of your friendship with Bodie, but it would be indiscreet for you to stay any longer. I believe I am the only person who has yet bothered to look closely enough into Draper’s history to work out his connection with you, but if you are seen together enough, that will change. There are men in power who’d very much like to burn Draper for what he knows. I barely have the power to protect him from what flames currently exist. I shall certainly not succeed if you add fuel to the fire. As if the issue weren’t sensitive enough, might I remind you of some very prominent traitors from the recent past who shared your, and Draper’s, tendencies? Return to your ship, Lieutenant Haley, and see out the remaining months of your career. When you and Draper are both released from your obligations to this government, you may do as you please. Though I will thank you to do it far away from here.’

‘That’s almost exactly what Jon’s been saying,’ murmured Haley.

‘Then he has more common sense than you,’ Cowley said shortly. 

He got to his feet. Haley stood with him. Cowley offered Haley his hand again. Feeling he had little choice, Haley took it.

‘Goodbye, Lieutenant Haley. I trust this is our _last,_ as well as our first meeting.’

‘Goodbye, sir. Give Doyle and Bodie my best.’

With Cowley’s barely-veiled threat echoing in his ears, Haley walked off down the corridor, fancying he could feel the Controller’s dour grey eyes boring into his back.


	20. Chapter 20

‘Have you been practising your climbing lately, Bodie?’ Cowley asked. They were sitting in the front of his estate car, perhaps in the same spot as Doyle and Draper had awaited their rendezvous that morning, though it seemed like a lifetime ago. It was ten o’clock at night: an hour before the meeting with Robson was scheduled. In the back of the car were Murphy and Lewis. They were going to pose as Cowley’s toughs while Bodie led the backup team: so Bodie had been told. But he had been called over to the Rover from Lucas’ car, in which he’d arrived at the scene, so he suspected there was to be a change of plan.

‘Reckon I can climb as well as ever, sir,’ Bodie answered. ‘Why do you ask? Want me to shimmy up the drainpipe and rescue him? Should I leave Robson a box of Milk Tray and a mysterious card, while I’m at it?’

‘Don’t be facetious, Bodie.’

Bodie did a double-take. ‘You don’t _really_ want me to shimmy up the drainpipe, do you, sir?’

‘Certainly not. I want you to put on some proper climbing equipment and ascend the warehouse’s outer wall. According to our surveillance team, Draper’s being held on the second floor: the eleventh window from the left. It’s smashed in two places, so you should have no problem opening it. Draper is tied up, has been alone since eight this evening, when one of Robson’s heavies came in with food and water. With any luck, _they’ll_ all be attending our little diplomatic exchange, but Draper will be kept upstairs. A man like Robson won’t show us the goods until he’s certain of getting his price. I want you to get Draper out, Bodie, before the negotiations are concluded.’

‘So you can bring Robson in?’

‘Exactly.’

Bodie shut his eyes for a second, trying to control his temper. ‘You’d risk Draper’s life just to spite Special Branch?’

‘It’s nothing to do with _spite,_ Bodie,’ Cowley shot back. ‘Robson is a criminal. A spy. A traitor. This is clearly Special Branch’s remit, not CI5’s. But they have failed to apprehend Robson for reasons of their own. I will not allow him to get away because another department has blundered, Bodie. And I’ll thank you not to question my orders. If I were going to risk Draper’s life, as you put it, I wouldn’t be sending you in as rearguard.’

‘Sorry, sir.’ Bodie knew when he was beaten.

‘Now. At eleven I shall meet Robson on the ground floor of the warehouse, as arranged. At the same time, you will begin your climb. The surveillance team will be watching Draper’s room, and warn you with two clicks on your R/T if anyone enters. You will overcome any intruder without firing your weapon, unless there is _no other option._ I expect there to be no disturbance, Bodie.’

‘There won’t be, sir.’

‘Good. Any questions?’

‘One. What about getting Draper out through the window? Robson said he was wounded in the hip.’

‘Use your head, Bodie. You’ll have an extra harness with you; Draper should be able to abseil down without too much discomfort. And if he can’t get down himself — you’re a big lad; he isn’t. Carry him.’

‘Sir.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then get to it. Lucas and McCabe will now be heading the backup team. Go and tell them to await my orders. Then go and get ready. There’ll be climbing equipment in the surveillance van.’

‘Sir.’

Bodie did what he was told. He could think of no better plan himself. CI5 men were taught to climb as silently as they were in the SAS, and he’d had enough practice as a member of one of those teams back in his army days. The idea of getting Draper out, without relying on Robson’s goodwill and/or greed, appealed to him. He could only hope that Robson wouldn’t anticipate such an action, and have Draper too heavily guarded. Bodie was more than adept at fighting multiple foes, but not silently.

At eleven o’clock, dressed in black, Bodie put his right foot up against the crumbling Victorian brick facade, and, ignoring the painful hammering of his heart, began to climb. As he passed the smashed ground floor window, the sound of Cowley’s voice echoed through to him. He was exchanging pleasantries with Robson, getting ready to begin the negotiation for Draper’s release. Bodie knew he didn’t have much time.

He reached the first floor window. There, all was completely dark, apart from the moonlight shining through. But the second floor window had a dim light, as if from a candle or oil lamp. The surveillance team had not, after all, needed their night-vision equipment. Their view of Draper had been clear enough. Their description of his physical state had not been encouraging. Bodie's fear was as much for his friend as himself.

As he neared the second floor window, Bodie braced himself for the clicks on his R/T that would signify that Draper wasn’t alone. But none came. He checked the dial of his watch in the moonlight. Five past eleven. He could feel the seconds ticking away. He climbed up to just above the window, and fixed the point for the ropes in place. There was the awful, tense moment as he tested its hold — no time for mistakes tonight — then he abseiled down a little, and slowly, carefully, he reached for the window. He inserted his hand into one of the holes in the glass. He felt for the right-hand catch. It was stiff from years of disuse, but he and Cowley had both thought of that. Bodie was carrying a small oil can in his pocket. A long, agonising moment later, and the right-hand half of the window swung out soundlessly, giving Bodie an easy passage into the room. He swung himself inside, and unhooked himself from the line.

Draper was standing in the middle of the room, tied to a low-built crossbeam with his arms outstretched. He was shivering with cold, grimacing with pain, shuffling his feet, obviously trying to get the weight off his left side, where he was wounded. His hair was damp, as if a bucket of water had been thrown over him some hours ago. His face was an awful shade of greenish-grey. His left hip was a mass of clotted blood; the bastards hadn’t even bothered to clean or bandage the wound. The medallion Haley had given him still swung around his neck. He didn’t speak; he just stared at Bodie, his eyes telling all his relief, and gratitude, and pain. As Bodie reached him, and took out a knife to cut his bonds, Draper opened his mouth, took a long, ragged breath, and managed one word: _‘Hurry.’_

‘Alright mate, give us a chance,’ Bodie whispered, with a reassuring grin for his old friend. He felt like hugging him, but there was no time for that now. Once he was free, Draper collapsed with a whimper. Mercifully he was light, and made little sound as he slumped to the floor. Bodie looked around for his clothes. They were dumped on a chair near the door. He crept over and picked them up. Checking his watch in the lamplight, he wondered if there was time to get Draper dressed. He could hear nothing from downstairs. In the end, he settled for helping Draper struggle into his — Haley’s — jumper, and jeans. There was no sign of Draper’s sheepskin jacket or the bullet-proof vest he’d been wearing, and socks and shoes could wait. Bodie felt a rush of affection when he saw Draper lift the jumper’s collar to his face, inhaling its scent.

‘OK, Jonny, I’m going to put a harness on you, but I’ll carry you down most of the way.’

Draper nodded. Trusting as a child, he stood still with his arms out, allowing Bodie to kit him out. He likewise allowed himself to be lifted — _Christ,_ thought Bodie, _he’s even lighter than Ray_ — and fastened by his harness to the rope outside.

‘Hold on,’ Bodie muttered. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

Misinterpreting Bodie’s words as an instruction, Draper clutched the rope. His breathing sounded worryingly laboured. With some difficulty, and not a little precariousness, Bodie manoeuvred himself out of the window, past Draper, and fastened his own harness to the line — and just stopped himself calling out Draper’s name in panic, as the injured man’s hands slipped from the rope, and he collapsed in a dead faint, suspended in mid-air. Before Bodie could steady him, his body swung inwards, and his left foot went straight through the closed half of the window.

The smashing of glass was the loudest thing in the world to Bodie. The resultant shouts from below made his heart thump painfully in his chest. He was armed, still wearing his bullet-proof vest, so he had little fear for his own life; but if multiple gunmen fired on them at once, he doubted his ability to protect Draper when they were both attached to a rope. Aware that time was horribly short, he hooked his ankles over the windowsill to keep himself steady, and lifted his injured friend, as gently as he could, into his arms. 

A man burst through the door into the room where Draper had been held. Bodie fired, two shots into his chest, partially suppressed by the silencer, but still deafening in his own ears. Then he kicked out from the window to the brickwork beside, and abseiled down. A bullet whistled past his ear as he sank beneath the window; the man upstairs had obviously not been alone. Then, a shot from a rifle rang out from the building opposite — Cowley must have posted a sniper up there — and for a second or two, the only sound Bodie heard, apart from the faintest swish of metal against rope, was the lapping of the Thames against the dock. It was a still night, with a waxing moon: beautiful if one was in the mood to see it. Bodie did see it, fleetingly, as he and Draper floated downwards: those two precious seconds before all hell broke loose. 

Bodie swore under his breath as his his feet touched concrete. He could see two black-clad figures, rounding the corner of the building. Still attached to the rope, he swung himself around so he was blocking most of their view of Draper. 

The CI5 sniper fired again, and one of the men fell. Bodie took out the other with a headshot. Almost fumbling in his hurry, he unhooked his own harness from the rope, and dropped low to the ground, pulling Draper down with him. Draper was beginning to regain consciousness; he moaned softly as Bodie fiddled with his harness, trying to get him out of it entirely, stop any pressure it was putting on his wound. In consternation, he realised Draper’s blood was flowing freely again.

_Christ, he needs a hospital, and fast._

‘Hal,’ Draper murmured, as Bodie set him down on his back. Bodie, in a flash of intolerance, gritted his teeth. _Damn you, Jon, do you ever think of anything else?_ But he knew Draper was way past that. Owen Haley was his last link to sanity. Had been, for too many years, for there to be any hope of change. Fleetingly, Bodie wondered how on earth Haley would handle him, if they ever got to live together permanently.

Then he realised that Haley wouldn’t care, any more than he would, if he and Doyle ever moved in together and had to adjust to each other’s smaller, but nevertheless significant, insanities.

‘Stay down and shut up,’ Bodie muttered. He reloaded his pistol and scanned the area. He heard gunshots, running footsteps, shouts of pain and protest, barked orders and calls to fire: the backup team was springing into action. Silently Bodie wished them good luck; he would have no part in that game tonight. His only task was to get Draper out alive. Next to the wall, in shadow, they would be safe for the moment, but once they broke cover ...

Bodie took out his R/T.

‘3-7 to 5-8, over.’

Ned Christian, head of the surveillance team, answered.

‘5-8 here, go ahead, Bodie.’

‘You got someone in the van?’

‘I’m at the wheel, standing by.’

‘I’ve got our man, but he’s injured. Unconscious. I need to get him out of here, fast.’

‘Alright. I’ll get the back door open, and flash my lights once when it’s all clear.’

‘Roger, Ned, thanks.’

Bodie stuck the R/T back in his pocket, crouched and listened.

‘Jon,’ he whispered.

‘Mmph.’

‘Don’t worry, mate, it’s gonna be OK.’

‘Bodie.’

‘Yeah?’

‘If I don’t make it ...’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘But if I don’t. Tell Hal’ — Jon took a long, rattling breath — ‘he was my last thought.’

Bodie took his hand and squeezed it.

‘He wouldn’t expect anything less, Jonny-boy.’

The lights of the surveillance van flashed. Bodie put Draper over his shoulder and ran. There was a shout, someone pursuing them, two pistol shots, then a rifle shot: someone behind them fell. Bodie felt Draper become a dead weight as he fainted again.

‘That’s it!’ Murphy’s voice shouted from somewhere. A door banged. Bodie didn’t dare look back. He had reached the van. Wilson, one of the other surveillance men, was sitting in the back, ready to help Bodie lift Draper inside. They manoeuvred him in as gently as possible. Bodie jumped in behind him, moved to pull the doors shut ...

He saw the figure across the compound, lit from behind by the headlights of Cowley’s car. It was Robson. He and another man were being manhandled out of the building by Murphy and Lewis. Cowley, clutching his shoulder, was following them. As Bodie watched, Robson twisted himself out of Murphy’s grip, grabbed his gun from its holster, took aim, and fired.

The bullet hit Bodie square in the chest. He was thrown backwards into Wilson. Dimly, he heard Wilson yell ‘GO!’ to Christian, who immediately put his foot down; the brakes of the van squealed, and Bodie was being laid down next to Draper. There were two dull thumps as Wilson closed the van doors; then they were speeding into the night, bumping painfully every few yards, the van’s suspension coping badly with the ill-maintained roads that led away from the disused docks.

‘Let’s get that thing off you.’

Bodie opened his eyes. Wilson was stripping him free of his bullet-proof vest.

‘Try and sit up. He’s only winded you.’

Bodie struggled upright. Immediately, his thoughts turned to Draper. He bent over the white-faced man, checking his pulse.

‘It’s going like the clappers,’ he said. ‘He’s still bleeding; we need to get him to hospital.’

‘He was shot this morning, wasn’t he?’ Wilson asked. When Bodie nodded, he went on: ‘At least we know the bullet didn’t hit the femoral artery. He’ll have lost quite a lot of blood, but he’ll be fine. We just need to get the wound clean. The sooner they can get him into surgery the better.’

Wilson produced the first aid kit that the surveillance team always kept handy. Together, he and Bodie bathed and dressed the wound. Draper woke briefly, moaned with pain, and squeezed Bodie’s hand.

‘He an old friend of yours?’ Wilson asked.

‘Yeah, we were at school together.’

‘Thought so. Snuck a look at Draper’s file before the op — saw the photo of the two of you. I had a friend at university who went to that school. Started just before you two left. There was a lot of talk, he said, about the teacher who was murdered.’ Wilson jerked his head towards Draper. ‘He had the right idea if you ask me.’ 

Bodie smiled grimly in acknowledgement, but let the conversation die away. He didn’t want to talk about the past. He’d had enough of it over the last forty-eight hours. He, the least affected of Thompson’s victims, had been traumatised enough. But Haley was permanently damaged, not just from what Thompson had done, but from where those actions had led. And Corin Adams, the lovely, laid-back kid Bodie remembered so fondly, had taken his own life.

After Corin’s death, and before the bout of drinking and debauchery that had got him into strife with his commanding officer, Bodie had been to visit Georgina Adams, Corin’s mother. She had been grateful for his visit; she remembered him fondly from when he had used to come and stay in the school holidays. She said what a shame it was that the two of them had lost touch. She asked whether Bodie knew what had happened to Corin at school. Bodie admitted that he had guessed, but that Corin had never confided in him. Georgina had showed him Corin’s suicide note. He remembered two telltale sentences: _Sex has always ruined everything. I hope God will forgive me._

God, and sex: those were Bodie’s abiding memories of boarding school. The best and worst of the Catholic church, the best and worst of his own self-discovery, lay buried there. Bodie had no faith, now, and he had never had much, but he had not resented religion when he had lived amongst its rituals and routines: not the way Draper had. He still remembered the good priests, like Father Walters, Father May, Father Repton — even Father Mansell, good-hearted under all that fire and brimstone — just as well as the one who was bad: Gerald Thompson, who had paid for his crimes with a violent death.

And even now there was a strange kind of Catholic guilt in Draper’s attitude to his work: through penance he would achieve salvation. Haley had seemed to believe the same thing. _‘One more Hail Mary,’_ he had said. Religion had cursed and comforted them both.

Bodie felt sure of one thing as he followed Draper’s stretcher into the hospital. There was only one life to be led, and that was on earth. You had to make the most of it. You had to know what you wanted, and have the courage to reach out and grasp it with both hands. Draper had always known that, and he had clung for years to a glimmer of hope that he would still reach his destination.

Bodie looked into his own future and found it far more uncertain.


	21. Chapter 21

The seafront was crowded with holiday-makers when Bodie and Doyle arrived on the morning of July 23rd. They were heading for a tall, thin house overlooking the bay, with a facade of reddish-brown stucco. It was visible from half a mile off because it stood slightly apart from the others along the front, on the tip of a bend. Doyle pointed it out, and Bodie nodded.

‘You might have let me stop for rock,’ Bodie pretended to grumble.

‘You’ll be asking for a bucket and spade next.’

‘You know, I might just.’

They pulled up next to a steep flight of stone steps that looked like it went back centuries. Next to it, a much shallower, much newer concrete path wound its way up to the front door, painted dark blue, with its smart brass knocker that glinted in the sunshine. An elderly man lived here: a house-proud ex-copper with wobbly knees. Forced into early retirement by the effect of his son’s crimes on his own reputation, David Draper had taken many years to come to terms with his lot. It had been his wife’s illness, and the persistence of his son’s young lover, the efforts Hal had made to keep the family together after his own had been torn so irrevocably asunder, that had finally made him see reason. After his wife’s death, he had moved to the sea, to the town where he’d once brought his family for holidays, the house he’d rented for all those years.

Bodie knew all about David from Jon’s latest letter. It had also declared, with an exuberance that fairly leapt off the page, that he could now walk, even run, not only without the aid of a crutch, but also without any pain. _The doctor says it’ll give me gip when it’s cold,_ the letter said, _especially when I’m older, but for now my hip is behaving itself. And fully ready to be used as leverage, like you needed to know._ Draper still delighted in giving Bodie too much information about his sex life. 

Most importantly, however, the letter was the reason why Bodie and Doyle were visiting the Yorkshire coast that day. Draper had invited them to spend his last birthday in England with him, before he left permanently for Geneva. Endearingly in character, he had written: _I’ve got a boat and a mooring. All I need now is a Hal._

Haley, Bodie and Doyle both knew, was arriving on a bus that night, having tied up all his loose ends with England and the Royal Navy. Draper thought he couldn’t make it until Tuesday. Bodie couldn’t wait to see his face when Hal turned up two days early.

Draper’s face as he opened the front door was a pleasing enough sight. His hair was shorter now, more fashionably cut, and he was clean-shaven. He looked fuller in the face, healthier, sun-tanned: not the gaunt, ghostly personage he had been four months earlier. When he grinned broadly and dragged Bodie forward into a hug, his eyes sparkled with fun and affection, the way they’d used to. After he let Bodie go he hugged Doyle, too: he’d largely forgotten Doyle’s initial animosity towards him. Doyle had been jealous and overprotective, but Draper had understood that, and forgiven Doyle easily. Doyle, on the other hand, once he’d realised that Draper couldn’t possibly be a threat, had allowed his dislike to recede into first a grudging, then a benign tolerance. Bodie suspected he might actually get to like him in the end.

Bodie and Doyle had never really resolved the issue of a serious relationship. But the imperative to come to a decision about it seemed to have lessened without any need for conversation. Their partnership had sunk back into the old, easy amiability. Tensions were occasional, rather than the norm. Perhaps the sex wasn’t quite as good as it had been when they were stressed and insecure and on the constant verge of fighting, but at least it was still going on, with no threat of stopping.

Bodie and Doyle gave Draper his birthday present: a wooden Chinese puzzle box with a pair of cufflinks hidden under its false bottom, and two bottles of a good, full-bodied red wine that Doyle had picked out while Bodie watched, not because he didn’t know good wine himself, but because he enjoyed seeing Doyle being ‘all pretentious’, as he liked to term it. Draper suggested getting fish and chips and taking the wine down to the beach that night, when the sun was setting and the crowds had gone home. Bodie and Doyle pronounced this an excellent idea. They pretended to compete for who went for the food, and Doyle — as the one they’d already agreed would be meeting Haley off the bus — acted the gallant loser.

They spent a leisurely morning, swapping childhood anecdotes — to Bodie’s surprise, even Doyle managed to dredge up another couple of good memories to add to the mix — then they took Draper’s dad out for a pub lunch. Bodie and Draper chatted while his dad and Doyle exchanged cop stories. Bodie spent the afternoon on the seafront with Doyle — who bought him rock, _and_ a bucket and spade as a joke — while Draper took some time alone with his dad. After next week, it would be months, if not years, before they saw each other again, and, as David said good-naturedly to Bodie, Tuesday morning was really the last time they would have together: ‘There’s no one else in the world when Hal’s around.’ Bodie rolled his eyes and replied that he knew the feeling.

Bodie and Doyle went to the pub when it opened, and returned at eight to call for Draper. It was still light, but the number of people on the beach was dwindling. Haley’s bus got in at nine-fifteen: plenty of time for Doyle to mess about with them on the beach before he made his excuses and went off, supposedly to get fish and chips. The smell of the takeaway food had been getting to him to such an extent that he’d even decided to take a day off the new vegetarian diet he was trying.

‘I’ve been craving it like a pregnant bird, all day,’ he confessed, as the three of them walked back up the beach together after their swim. The sea was still deliciously warm. ‘I might go up now, explore a bit first. I know you two won’t mind a natter on your own for a while. You can talk each other’s ears off in peace.’

‘Like Byron and Shelley,’ suggested Draper.

‘What he said,’ agreed Bodie, who — to Draper’s frequently-expressed, scandalised disgust — preferred Keats.

Doyle dried himself off and slipped back into his clothes. He waved goodbye and trotted up to the front, passing a teenaged couple out for a romantic walk as he went.

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying so,’ said Draper, as they watched Doyle go, ‘but your partner has the most exquisite arse I’ve ever seen.’

‘And it’s all mine,’ Bodie answered with a laugh. ‘Well.’ He shrugged. ‘Almost.’

Draper sighed. ‘You’re still persisting in _not_ taking it to the next level? It’s just daft, Bodie. You both _want_ to get serious; it’s obvious. Romance and fidelity aren’t just for straight couples, you know. We’ve got every bit as much right to that security as they have.’

‘I think it’s what _I_ want,’ Bodie confessed. He spread out his towel, flopped down on the sand. Draper sat down with him, back-to-back, and rested his head against Bodie’s. It was an easy, brotherly intimacy that neither of them seemed to have achieved with others. Draper was an only child, and Bodie’s brother was _too_ much younger, too far removed from his life and experiences, for that kind of closeness. Bodie, for his part, had never quite understood the strength of his bond with Draper, but he wasn’t one to gainsay a good relationship. He would never tell him, but he loved him like they were the same blood. Draper, of course, had told him that, more than once. But other kinds of love — if he couldn’t tell the man to whom he’d first admitted he was queer, who could he tell?

‘I love Ray, Jon,’ he said softly. ‘I love him like you love Hal. I’ll never be able to show it like you do, but ...’

‘Oh, rubbish,’ Draper interrupted him, laughing. ‘You show him every time you look at him. And he’s showing you the same thing, Bodie. Can’t you see it?’

‘Yes — no — I don’t know. Sometimes I think I can. Other times I’m not sure.’

‘Well, it’s there,’ Draper said firmly. ‘I knew what was between you the second we met. When I hugged you he looked like he wanted to crucify me!’

‘I know he was jealous,’ Bodie admitted. ‘I let him be, for a while.’

‘But I take it you haven’t told him how you feel.’

Bodie shook his head. His hair and scalp whispered against his friend’s.

‘Well, tell him. No harm in saying it once, is there?’

Bodie frowned. ‘Coming from you, that’s unbelievable!’

Draper shifted his head back so it rested on Bodie’s shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, Bodie saw the smile on his face. ‘Not all couples are the same, you know. Hal and I — we both just happen to be sentimental idiots, that’s all. What’s more, we’re sentimental idiots with a liberal arts education, which means we’ve got centuries of inspiration to draw from. Even Alexander did that — slept with a copy of the _Iliad_ under his pillow, called himself Achilles to his lover’s Patroclus. And who knows how many lovers have likened themselves to Alexander and Hephaestion? No one knows for sure whether they even slept together, but it never seems to matter. Hal started it, in our case, but when I thought I’d lost him I went over and over the accounts of Alexander’s mourning. I read them as often as I read _In Memoriam,_ which is far more my territory. Hal wept buckets when he found all the quotes in my journal.

‘But you and Ray don’t need vows and tears and verses and endearments, Bodie,’ he finished, more firmly than he’d spoken his other reflections. _‘We_ don’t even need them, really; we just like them. You two just need one little talk, I’m sure of it.’

‘And what if we have it, and we try and get serious, but it doesn’t work?’ Bodie asked.

‘Then you find out what does, and stick with that,’ Draper argued. ‘Just don’t let _anyone_ fuck it up permanently, Bodie. Including yourselves. Nothing’s worth it. Believe me, I know.’

‘At least you kept faith, Jon. Ray and I are getting more hard-bitten and cynical every year, you know. And there’s no way out of it for us, even looking ten years into the future. We neither of us could do anything else _but_ CI5, now. I mean, no offence, but I haven’t got a Swiss bank account full of fees from private hit contracts, and Ray had no rich grandmother to leave him a fortune. We’ve got nothing to offer each other.’

‘Got yourselves, haven’t you?’ Draper asked, unsympathetically. ‘That’s more than Hal and I could offer each other for years. We still made it work; so can you.’

‘True,’ Bodie allowed. ‘But you’ve succeeded where Ray and I’ll never ...’

‘Financially, you mean,’ Draper corrected him. But he sounded less aggressive now. ‘D’you want to know how _I_ measure success?’

‘Poetically, if I know anything about you,’ Bodie answered.

Draper’s laughter shook them both. His bare, sand-covered back was a warm and comfortable presence against Bodie’s.

‘The way I see it,’ Draper said, ‘every soul accumulates scars. We’re both in our thirties — we’ve got a fair few each.’

‘To say the least,' Bodie said drily.

‘But the question is — how many of those scars are love bites?’

It was Bodie’s turn to burst out laughing. Draper and his metaphors. Some things would never change.

‘And if you have a lot of love bites, that means success, does it?’

‘Course it does,’ Draper sounded impatient now. ‘If you’ve loved more than you’ve hated, the pain doesn’t matter. Don’t you see?’

Both men sobered. There was a long silence. The beach was almost empty now, no one at their end of it at all, and no sound but the waves against the shore.

‘So — you really think Ray and I could make it work?’ Bodie asked at length.

‘If you want an answer abounding with good sense and cynical realism, you’re asking the wrong man.’

Bodie snorted. ‘OK. I’ll think about it.’

‘Good,’ said Draper, and abruptly changed the subject, sitting up so suddenly that Bodie nearly fell over. ‘Hey, you see that cave up there?’ He pointed. Bodie looked, and nodded.

‘We lost our virginity there.’

‘You and Hal?’

Draper nodded, and smiled the smile that meant he was missing him.

‘How old were you?’

‘About twenty-six.’

Bodie did fall over that time. _‘Twenty-six?’_

‘Well, we never got the chance before that.’

‘Had you been with _anyone_ else?'

‘I had a few women. Hal didn’t have anyone. He was never interested in girls. And he swore himself to celibacy when they put me away. Nothing short of finding out I was dead would have made him go with another man. I think I’d’ve been celibate too if I’d known he was alive. It would only have been until we were twenty-one, in that case, so it wouldn’t’ve been so bad.’

‘My God, I admire your will-power.’ Bodie frowned. ‘I think. Either that or I think you’re out of your minds. I still haven’t decided.’

‘Well, would it help your decision to know that it was so fucking amazing, it was probably only a freak of nature that stopped us getting arrested for public indecency?’

‘Bloody great storm drown out the screaming, did it?’ Bodie joked.

‘No joke, Bodie. There was a bloody great storm. We had my dad’s place to ourselves; we could’ve done it in a nice warm bed, but when the storm came — we decided to come down here.’

‘Fucking hell. Don’t make me imagine that; I’ll disgrace myself.’

‘If you’re thinking about Hal based on the last time you saw him naked, you’ll have to add some maturity. He’s even more perfect now.’

‘Oh, shut up.’ Bodie rolled onto his stomach and pretended to sulk, resting his head on his folded arms. Draper giggled at him and ruffled his hair.

‘I wouldn’t be too jealous. You’ve got Ray. All lover’s prejudice aside, in one department he leaves Hal way — um — behind.’

‘Lover’s prejudice firmly in place, he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, head to toe,’ Bodie murmured.

‘Good,’ said Draper, rubbing his shoulders. ‘That’s the way it should ... oh, my God. Oh my fucking God, HAL!’

In an ill-timed glance upwards, Bodie saw Draper’s feet thundering past his head. Spitting out a mouthful of sand, he saw Doyle and Haley walking down the beach towards them: Doyle carrying the fish and chips, and Haley, with his trousers rolled up, carrying his shoes. When he saw Draper he dropped them with a cry of joy and ran forward to meet him. They hugged each other so hard that they both lost their footing, and collapsed in the sand, in fits of laughter. Clutching their sides, they helped each other up, and took off for the cave hand-in-hand, in an ungainly, staggering run.

Doyle was laughing too, when he reached Bodie.

‘You hungry?’ he asked. ‘All the more for us, I think.’

Bodie spread out the towels again, shaking them free of sand. He sat down beside his partner, and they ate fish and chips, and listened to the waves, and watched the moon get more visible in the sky. All the time, Bodie was drinking in the beauty around him and beside him. All the time, he was getting up his courage. He’d almost have preferred to defuse an atom bomb. 

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Doyle sucked the salt off one finger. ‘What about?’

Bodie shrugged. ‘Us.’

‘Ah.’

Doyle squeezed lemon juice onto his hands to help clean them. Bodie did the same, then they wiped their hands and faces with paper napkins. Bodie knew this was a solemn occasion, and Doyle had seemed to sense it.

‘OK, I’m all ears,’ he told Bodie. ‘Say what you need to say.’

Bodie sat up straight, crossed his legs. He looked Doyle up and down, noted the familiar easy sprawl, the masculine curves and lines of his body. Yes, he could live with just this. He’d give up all other lovers in a heartbeat, if Doyle asked him to. He just had the feeling that Doyle never would.

Doyle grinned. ‘Bodie, you’re scaring me.’

‘Yeah, you look terrified,’ Bodie joked, which just made Doyle grin more widely, and Bodie even more crazy about him. Whenever Doyle smiled at him like that, Bodie could almost have turned into as sentimental an idiot as Draper.

He took a deep breath.

‘Love you, Ray.’

Doyle’s grin barely faltered. He got up on his knees, leaned forward, and took Bodie’s face gently in both hands. Bodie huffed out his breath in astonishment at the rush of emotion that coursed through him.

‘Is _that_ all?’ Doyle asked, laughing. ‘I thought you were going to suggest asking Cowley to let us share a flat, or something. Or ask me to break it off. You really _did_ scare me, you know.’

‘So, telling Cowley about us, and breaking it off; they’re two equally ... well, yes, I see what you mean.’

‘You remember what Hal said in his letter. He warned us. We can’t ever tell Cowley.’

‘I know,’ Bodie muttered. He met Doyle’s eyes, slipped his arms around his waist. ‘Doesn’t _really_ matter, though, does it? I don’t necessarily want things to change between us. I just need you to know there _is_ an us. Always will be. As much as it is for those two.’ He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the cave.

‘Except a _little_ less bonkers,’ said Doyle. He sat down again, and pulled Bodie against him. He turned Bodie’s head so they faced each other, and kissed him more tenderly on the mouth than Bodie had thought him capable.

‘I love you, too,’ he said. ‘In case you didn’t realise.’

‘I did,’ Bodie admitted. He buried his face in Doyle’s neck, knowing full well he was wearing an expression of pure, naked joy, and his partner didn’t need to get any more arrogant by witnessing it. ‘We don’t _need_ the words, Ray,’ he added, after a moment. ‘But isn’t it nice just to have the freedom, to say them out loud when we want?’

‘Yes, it probably is,’ Doyle admitted. ‘And you can say them whenever you want. I’ll always want to hear them. But, Bodie ...’ he trailed off, becoming suddenly very serious.

‘What?’ Bodie lifted his head and looked at his partner’s grave face.

‘Please don’t start reciting poetry to me, OK? I don’t think I can cope with that.’

Bodie burst out laughing, and hugged his lover to him, echoing his earlier words: ‘Is _that_ all?’

Doyle smiled happily. ‘Yeah, that’s all.’

‘Then’ — Bodie kissed his temple — ‘you’ve got yourself a deal. Except you have to allow me one little bit of Tennyson. Just tonight. Then, I promise, it’s back to gloriously unromantic, forever and ever, amen.’

‘Praise the Lord!’ Doyle exclaimed, in a silly American accent. ‘OK, sweetheart. Hit me.’

Bodie put his mouth to Doyle’s ear, and whispered the only line he remembered from _In Memoriam,_ flooding all his love into its recitation, all his rejoicing that Doyle was, for now, alive — and all his hope that when they died, they would die together.

_‘Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine.’_

‘Hmmm,’ said Doyle, making a great show out of considering the line, stroking his chin and frowning so deeply that the lines looked etched in his face. He then made an equally big show out of brightening up, fixing Bodie with one of his blinding white smiles that, even in semi-darkness, made Bodie’s heart and loins throb in unison.

‘Actually, Bodie,’ Doyle said, romantic as ever, ‘that could be a lot worse.’

_— fin —_

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains occasional depictions of, and allusions to, consensual sexual acts between boys of 16 and under. This is mostly of the "public school experimentation" type, and does not include penetrative sex. The descriptions are brief and mildly graphic, such that might have an R or "Mature" rating if they depicted the same acts between adults. There are also allusions to, and recollections of, the sexual abuse of teenage boys. The recollections are told first by a boy of sixteen, and second by an adult male.


End file.
